Arguing With Chip and Pin Machines
by starrysummernights
Summary: A collection of drabbles that offer a peek into the lives of John and Sherlock, Mycroft and Lestrade, and other Sherlock characters. Humor, Fluff, Romance, Angst, Johnlock, and Mystrade. Cover art by the wonderful Frogstarr.
1. Driving

**I love reading others 221B's and so this little corner will be for my own 221B's (and a few 442's) written when I need to step back a little from my other stories. Thanks for reading!**

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"Sherlock, _no_! I'm not letting you-

"Don't be absurd, John, I have plenty of experience!"

"No!"

"Well, it's not as if _you_ know what you're doing! Just let me-"

"Oi, I said no! _Get off_! Sherlock- _no_!"

Sherlock backed away and glared at the short, indignant army doctor who was clutching the rental car keys to his chest as if they were his firstborn child.

"I thought we would be able to hail a cab. I didn't expect you to drive us." John protested, eyeing Sherlock as if he were a menace.

Sherlock studied John and decided it would be a bit not good to try and tempt John to let him drive with the phrase "Could be dangerous." That would more than likely make John never get in the car with him…and they were already late.

"It will be perfectly safe, John. I'm a good driver."

John snorted and rolled his eyes, obviously unconvinced.

Sherlock decided he had tried to be diplomatic. The gloves, as they say, were off.

The resulting scuffle was violent, loud, and Sherlock was called a stream of creative curses he made a note of to ask John about later. When he finally stood, keys victoriously clutched in hand, John groaned.

He refused to speak to Sherlock the entire way and angrily sulked in the backseat.


	2. John's Jam- A Horrible Morning Surprise

**So...I _should_ be working on The Chemistry is Incredibly Simple and Very Destructive but...I'm instead writing these addictive 221B's! Gah! Once you start you just can't stop! They're like potato chips! Hope mine are delicious! :)**

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"Look, John, I bought your favorite jam."

Sherlock held out the jar, smiling sweetly at his stone-faced flatmate who angrily ignored him.

"Surprised I went shopping?" He shook the jar a little closer to John's face. No reaction.

"Took me a while. Didn't know where to look. When I finally _did_ find the jam section- I _deduced_ where it was, the sales associate was _most_ unfriendly and unsympathetic to my jamless plight- there was such a vast array-"

"Sherlock-"

"That I was convinced I would never find your brand-"

"_Sherlock_!"

"But I soldiered on- I thought of your bravery in Afghanistan, John- and acquired the correct brand. The queue was very long- I have never seen so many sick people about- and the cashier was _most_ tedious, snapping her gum and making incorrect change-"

"Sherlock!"

"It's also _raining_, John, but I walked through the rain- I shall probably come down with something between the sick people at Tesco and being wet- in order to bring you your jam." The jar was held closer to John's face and wiggled again to draw proper attention and praise.

John sighed. "Sherlock." He took the jar and Sherlock beamed.

"I shall find a different place to store congealing blood next time."

Sherlock sailed away, leaving John to study his jam with a slightly sick expression.


	3. Boooooored!

**These are so stupidly addictive. :) Thanks go to everyone for reviewing and supporting! Please, as usual, read and review! Thanks!**

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"_Booooored_."

No response.

"I'm _boooooooored_."

A glare was leveled in his direction. He smiled back at it.

"Find me something to do."

"Find yourself something to do, John." Sherlock replied testily. "Terrible imitations of me are getting you nowhere."

"I'm just so _boooooored_." John chuckled, rolling his head back and forth against across the back of his chair.

Sherlock glared, opened his mouth, thought better of what he had been about to say, and chose instead to ignore John.

This lasted for 3 minutes.

"_BORED_!"

"Shall I fetch your revolver for you?" Sherlock asked innocently.

"Why are there no cases, Sherlock? Are the criminal classes really that…_unimaginative_?"

Sherlock snorted in laughter and John smiled.

It was quite in the flat for a few minutes, Sherlock slowly immersing himself in his book again and John silently plotting the exact correct moment to-

"_I NEED A CASE_!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. Sherlock jumped and glared murderously.

"There will be a case very soon when you drive me to murder you." Sherlock hissed, and then cocked his head, eyes running up and down John's body speculatively. "Not that I would get caught, of course. I could store your body in the freezer. It's short and small enough with room to spare. Imagine the experiments, John."

"That's disgusting, Sherlock."

"Still bored?"


	4. He Wasn't Gay, Right?

**Aw, thanks to everyone for their awesome reviews and support! I am trying to be better at replying to reviews so please bear with me. This is the first 442 I have written so...yay me! Thanks! :)**

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He wasn't gay, right? I mean, a bloke could have _certain thoughts_ every once in a while about a _certain person_…but that didn't make them _gay_ exactly. They could have just been going through a particularly long dry spell and were really horny. The person could be curious, or just utterly fascinated with a certain person whose quick wit and striking mien were oddly attractive. That didn't make that person _gay_.

No, of course not.

The way the man looked at him, though, made him break out in a sweat and when he smiled and rolled the syllables of his name in that posh mouth…_Christ_. Don't even get him started on the way the man _dressed_, which was sex itself. All he thought about doing was stripping him of his superior attitude and fucking him against the nearest table.

He was suddenly aware he was being spoken to and managed a response which seemed appropriate because Sherlock huffed and Mycroft smiled at him approvingly.

Greg Lestrade smiled stiffly back at Mycroft Holmes and wished he had the answer to his problem.

Mycroft was speaking to Sherlock as one would a child, while Sherlock pouted on the sofa and pretended he could not hear a word about the case his older brother was offering him. John sat in his armchair, listening with a slight frown on his face.

No one noticed that the esteemed Detective Inspector was having lascivious thoughts about the British Government- and he was _not_ thinking of Parliament.

"_Fine_ I'll take the case- just get out of my damn flat!" Sherlock exploded, propelling himself from the sofa and stalking to his violin. Everyone in the room braced themselves for the ensuing torture on their ears.

"Excellent. John, always a pleasure." Mycroft bowed, and then turned to Greg. "Another time, Detective Inspector Lestrade." He smirked as he brushed past Greg and Greg, horrifyingly, felt his cheeks flush and his breathing hitch, all from the way the damn man said his _name_.

Greg winced when Sherlock began playing his violin and turned in time to see John, still seated in his armchair, give Sherlock's stiff back a look of half-adoration, half- homicidal tendency as the violin playing morphed into something truly horrible and screeching.

It suddenly hit him- _John_. John would be able to understand Greg's problem. After all, that man had seemed as straight as they come until he had moved in with Sherlock- and now look at him! It was obvious the two were shagging and they basically eye-fucked at every opportunity.

As the shrieking violin grew louder, Greg left 221B, his mind turning over how to approach John best.


	5. I Know Exactly What You're Going Through

**Thanks, guys, for following my little drabbles. This chapter is a continuation of the previous one, with a certain conversation between Greg and John in a pub. I don't know who to feel more sorry for at this point. Oh, and Banbi-V- no one is straight in my stories. They are all delightfully gay. :)**

**Please read and review!  
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John grinned as he slid onto the barstool across from Greg.

"How ya doin', Greg?"

"Good. I ordered us a round."

"Great. I _had_ to get out of the flat. Sherlock's exploding eyeballs in the microwave." John shuddered and Greg made a distracted but sympathetic noise. He was not here to talk about Sherlock's experiments, but perhaps it would be easier to break the ice first.

Over the next hour, John talked about work and Sherlock's latest experiments and Greg filled him in on the latest Yard rumors. Finally, Greg managed to work up his nerve and glanced around to make sure no one was in ear-shot before he turned to John.

"John…How did you… _you know_…know you were gay?" Greg asked, his voice breathy and tense. John froze and blinked in surprise before frowning.

"What?"

"With Sherlock. How did you _know_…because lately I just can't get this bloke out of my head and I never thought I was gay- I mean, I've been _curious_, yeah, but-

"Greg- I'm not gay." John blurted, and they both fell silent, blushing.

"_Ah_." Lestrade nodded and felt hot embarrassment sweep through him. He had just thought John and Sherlock were shagging. It had seemed obvious. He guessed not.

A heavy, uncomfortable silence fell between them and Greg wished he had never brought the damn subject up.

"Look…it's none of my business but…if you _were _gay, just know that…it's fine. It's really fine." John said, his voice serious. "I mean, my sister's a lesbian so-"

"Yeah, sure." Greg said, wishing John would shut up and drop it.

"Seriously, Greg, it's nothing to be ashamed of. I'm here to help if you need me. So…who's the bloke? Do I know him?"

"Uhh…yeah. Yeah, pretty well."

Greg watched as John went through a mental list of all the people he and Greg both knew and saw his eyes widen when he reached a conclusion.

"Is it…_Sherlock_?" John asked, clenching his jaw and his face turning an alarming shade of red. Greg choked on his beer and chuckled.

"Nah, it's not Sherlock." Greg sighed and decided if he were going to confide in anyone, it would be John Watson. "Wrong Holmes."

"_Mycroft_?" John asked, and when Greg nodded he snorted inelegantly in an attempt not to laugh.

"Glad my sexual identity crisis is so funny-"

"No, Greg, it's not that. Just…_Mycroft_? _Really_?"

"There's just something about him. He's so posh and arrogant- and his _voice_. He's intelligent and clever…and I want to shag his brains out." Greg shook his head. John looked uncomfortable.

"Greg…I think I know exactly what you're going through, mate." He said, and chugged his beer.


	6. You Know Best

**I'm going to preface this by saying that Greg told John it was ok to tell Sherlock he thought he was gay- just not to tell who he had a crush on. Greg assumes that Sherlock probably already knows anyway, therefore John is not breaking any promises so no worries.**

**Also, thanks so much for the nice reviews! I really live on reviews like other people live on food so good reviews make me healthy :) Thanks, guys! I promise I will continue the Mystrade romance but also include random little drabbles as well, which was what this story was originally intended for but I got waaay sidetracked.**

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"_Of course_ I knew he was gay. Why do you think his wife was always cheating on him?"

"Spouses cheat on each other all the time, Sherlock. Doesn't mean one or the other is gay."

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise and closed his eyes again. He had been _thinking_ when John had rudely interrupted to tell him about Lestrade's sexuality. What the hell did he care if the DI was gay? Why was John so interested?

Sherlock stiffened and cracked an eye open to deduce the reason for this.

"I mean…how could he have been confused for so long?" John asked, his voice rather distant as if he were asking himself the question.

"We, unfortunately, live in a complex and rigid society in which so-called "deviant" sexual practices are suppressed because they are thought of as-"

"Yes, I get that part, Sherlock, I just….I don't know." John shrugged, looking dejected.

Sherlock opened both eyes in order to properly deduce his flatmate.

"John…" he began, then stopped. What was he saying? He made a frustrated noise and closed his eyes again.

"It's just…"

"Are you speaking about yourself?"

John laughed, as if the idea were ridiculous, then paused. "Do you think I am?"

"Why do you think _you_ cannot keep a girlfriend?"

"Mental flatmate?"

Sherlock smiled. "Of course, John. You know best."


	7. Nightmares

**Promise to get back to Mystrade romance soon! :) Please read and review!**

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From the time he was a very small child, Sherlock had nightmares. His vivid, inquisitive, developing mind was able to conjure up truly gruesome scenarios in his slumber. They were enough to make his little heart race and his skin break into a cold sweat. His small legs would twist in the bedclothes and he would struggle fruitlessly as he dreamed. He always woke himself when he screamed, his high voice ringing out in the darkness of his room, sheets clutched tightly in his shaking fists. No one came to check on him- his parents were usually gone and Mycroft's rooms were too far away. Sherlock was left alone to sit, trembling, in bed and remind himself that it had just been a dream.

It had not been real.

Sherlock grew up and he still experienced the awful nightmares but by the time he was in his late teens he did so as an observer. He was able to rationally know he was safe and no actual harm was occurring to him. The dreams were dull. Unoriginal. Expected.

Then Sherlock met an ex-army doctor with a wounded shoulder and a psychosomatic limp.

And his nightmares changed.

When _John_ was in danger, Sherlock's heart pounded and he thrashed his arms trying to save him. He struggled to free his friend from whatever peril he would find him in. It didn't matter if it were not logical how John had gotten himself into such dangers, Sherlock could not stop the fear and adrenaline coursing through him as he cursed and fumbled, trying and failing to come up with a solution to save John. He would watch him die in front of his eyes and would wake up screaming, sometimes with tears on his face. He would lie, shaking, trying to convince himself it had just been a dream. Not real.

Each time Sherlock woke screaming, without fail, his door would creak open and John would be there. He would walk across the floor, ignore Sherlock's tears, and sit beside him. He would not tell him it had not been real, just a dream, because John knew all about nightmares and how very real they could seem. He understood that you would want comfort, not stupid rational words telling you to get over the fear, that it was not reasonable to be scared. Sometimes that was impossible. He never asked Sherlock what his dreams were about and Sherlock never volunteered the information.

The best nights were the ones John would stay, curling up beside Sherlock and falling asleep. Those were the nights Sherlock's nightmares would not appear, and instead, he dreamed of something exquisitely breathtaking.


	8. The Raid

Every month, John raided Sherlock's bedroom while he was out.

It wasn't easy having Sherlock Holmes as a flatmate. Not only was he annoying, condescending, all-knowing, and a bit of a dick, he also tended to think that whatever John owned was therefore his property as well and used it accordingly- oftentimes without consideration for John or bothering to return it.

This month, John had left his raid off far too long. Almost all his socks were missing and John was rather angry as he jerked multiple pairs out of Sherlock's sock index without caring if he messed up Sherlock's meticulous catalogue or not. The consulting detective would know John had been in his room anyway, what was the point in hiding it? Perhaps if he deduced that John had been angry it would stop him nicking so many of John's things.

John snorted. Yeah, and Anderson would correctly find a clue at a crime scene.

John pulled his razor and a half-empty box of condoms out of Sherlock's dresser. John had never opened them and he paused as he thought what Sherlock could have possibly used them for…Experiment? Sex? Surely not. This was getting out of hand.

In Sherlock's closet, John found his gun. He froze at the sight of it, then clenched his jaw and balled his hands into fists. Sherlock hadn't even bothered trying to hide the gun and that made John all the more angry. John placed the gun back in his room, making a mental note to buy a locking case for it, before going back downstairs and continuing his raid.

John threw himself on his stomach to look under Sherlock's bed. Not very original of the detective to hide John's things under there, but it was one of the more rewarding places to look. After dragging out eight paperback books, two medical journals, three mugs, one jumper, and the power cord to his laptop, John spotted a bit of color at the very back, near the wall and on the side of the bed Sherlock slept on.

He grunted and wriggled and stretched and finally managed to snag the bit of red cloth with the tips of his fingers. He pulled it forward and froze, staring at the cloth as if it were an unexploded bomb.

Sherlock had taken his red pants.

_Why would he have taken his red pants?_

John suddenly heard Sherlock talking to Mrs. Hudson downstairs and knew he had only moments before he strode through the door. He fiercely debated with himself, the underwear clutched in his hand then, quickly and before he changed his mind, left them lying atop Sherlock's bed.

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**I said I would never do it but I have officially joined the Red Pants Monday tradition. I am ashamed of myself...not really. Hope you all enjoyed the story :) This was a 442B, by the way.  
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	9. The Raid, Part 2

**Let's celebrate Red Pants Monday a little early, hmm? Enjoy :)**

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Sherlock didn't bother to greet John, whose arms were full of his things (today had been a raid day then), as he rushed past him and into his bedroom. He needed his book on poisons- a case hinged on the information- and was halfway across his room before he caught a flash of red from the corner of his eye and froze.

There, laid neatly on his bed, were John's red pants.

Usually, the items Sherlock took from John served a purpose. The red pants though…he had taken those purely because he knew John had worn them and having something in his possession that had been so intimately pressed against his friend…he had been unable to resist.

"Interesting, finding those today."

Sherlock turned to find John leaning in the doorway, a playful grin on his lips.

"Can't imagine what you were using them for. Experiment?"

Sherlock glanced at the red pants lying provocatively on his bed. John had given him an out, a way to deny he had been doing anything perverted or odd with them.

If he were so inclined.

"No. I used them to masturbate with."

It was worth the momentary flash of embarrassment to see John's eyes widen and his breath catch in his throat. It had obviously been the last answer he was expecting and Sherlock smiled smugly back at him-

Until John started laughing, shaking his head, and laughing. The smug grin slipped from Sherlock's face and he frowned.

"What?" Why was the idea of his masturbating funny? He was a healthy man in his thirties after all- and he knew what _John_ did on his laptop-

"You're a bastard." John said fondly, snatching up the red pants. "I guess that _was_ a stupid question. Just stay the hell away from my pants next time you need a test subject for an experiment. These are safe to wear, aren't they?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. He had washed the pants himself the last time he had, uh, used them so yes, they were clean. He wanted to keep them though and it seemed John was determined to reclaim them. He couldn't have that.

"Doubtful. The acidic powder could have averse side-effects in certain delicate areas-."

John, horrified, flung the pants onto Sherlock's bed and held his hand away from his body as if it were about to turn black and drop off.

"_Sherlock_! _Why were you testing acidic powder on my pants_? Never mind- that's not important-"he rushed from the room and Sherlock heard the taps in the loo turn on.

He grinned as he picked up the pants and, lifting up his mattress, carefully stored his bounty.


	10. Ring, Ring

**Because I wanted Greg Lestrade to act like a teenage girl with her first crush- and also because, if _you_ were ringing the British Government to ask them on a date, would you be all cool and suave? Unlikely.**

**Enjoy :)**

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Greg took a deep, steadying breath, called himself an idiot for the hundredth time in the last minute, and pressed the #1 speed dial on his mobile.

It rang only twice before-

"Mycroft Holmes' phone, Bridget speaking."

Greg was stumped. He had not been expecting anyone except Mycroft to answer and his perfectly rehearsed lines scattered. He choked.

"Um, yeah, this is, uh, Greg Lestrade-"

"Oh, _Detective Inspector_. Please hold."

There was silence and Greg debated just hanging up, his heart beating wildly, but all too soon, Mycroft's posh voice came onto the line.

"What's Sherlock done now?" He sounded irritated and distracted. Greg heard raised voices and the babble of multiple televisions blaring in the background.

"Um, I-"

Mycroft sighed the long-suffering sigh of an older brother.

"Please, _simplify_ the situation, Detective Inspector. We are currently dealing with the overthrow of- well, never mind. What's he done?"

"I wasn't calling about Sherlock." Greg said in a chagrined rush.

"Oh?" There was a long pause then, soft and knowing, "_Oh_."

"I've called at a bad time-"

"Well, _yes_, but-"

"I don't want to bother you. I'll just talk to you later." Greg ended the call before he could embarrass himself further.

Only to realize that he had just _hung up_ on Mycroft Holmes. Greg, crashing his head onto his desk, blushed.


	11. Exhaustion

**I want to take this opportunity to thank everyone for following this story and leaving such wonderful reviews! I know it seems like I say thanks a lot but I seriously mean it every time I say it. I would probably not be writing so much if it were not for such awesome people supporting me! :D**

**Enjoy! :)**

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Greg was tired. Seriously fucking exhausted. It had been a long week, made longer by Sherlock and John getting involved in a double-homicide investigation that Sherlock had _insisted_ was related to a case he had received through John's blog. It had been a _nightmare_ and the resulting paperwork had been staggering. Greg was ready to go home, put on his rattiest sweats, and sleep for the next two days. That was his plan, and it seemed glorious and likely…until a sleek black car pulled alongside him.

_Fuck_.

Greg stopped walking and watched blearily as Mycroft Holmes gracefully climbed out of the car. His eyes took in Greg's rumpled appearance (Greg didn't even have the strength left to care), bloodshot eyes, and slumped, tired body.

"Is this a bad time?" he inquired politely, eyebrows raised, and Greg snorted.

"Yeah, it is. Mostly thanks to your idiot brother."

"Yes, I heard about Sherlock's involvement with the Bridgerton affair this week."

"Did you, uh…want something?" Greg asked, knowing he was being a bit rude but really, a bloke could only take so much before he said to hell with manners and just wanted people to come to the point. He had reached that stage eleven hours ago.

Mycroft tapped his umbrella against the pavement. "As a matter of fact I _did_, however I can see this is a bad time-"

"Just cut to the chase, Mycroft. Whatever you need from me, just say it. I've had a really lousy week and I just want to go home and sleep."

"By all means, Detective Inspector. Are you sure you're safe to drive? I can offer you a ride home."

Greg rubbed his forehead, beginning to feel a headache. "Yeah, I'm fine. Look, I'm really sorry but-"

"No need to apologize. Dealing with Sherlock is enough to drain even the most energetic of people."

Mycroft gave him a bland smile and Greg felt as if he were missing something but he was just too tired to care at the moment. He nodded vaguely and started walking to his car.

"Gregory."

Greg turned around, surprised that Mycroft had actually said his name. He was usually just Detective Inspector or, rarely, Lestrade.

"Uh, yeah?"

Mycroft smiled again, a closed, secretive smile. "I appreciated your phone call."

Greg decided, in that instant, that he really hated both Holmes brothers with a burning passion. He didn't know why Mycroft showed up, all mysterious, and now he was being derisive about Greg's embarrassment of a phone call.

"Thanks." Greg said, injecting as much sarcasm as he could into his tone and turned away, leaving a very frustrated and bewildered Mycroft Holmes behind.


	12. There's A Head In The Fridge

**Be prepared for some BAMF!John Watson coming up in the next few chapters. Not to worry- I'm not abandoning the Mystradian romance, just placing it on hold for a brief moment. :) Enjoy.**

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Everyone always seemed to forget that John had been an army doctor, a surgeon. Trained at Bart's, seen a lot of injuries and violent deaths. He had killed people before and he knew how that felt, the way the blood seemed to slow in his veins, the world fell away, his eyes focused, a roaring in his ears as he squeezed the trigger and watched his target fall- but he had also healed people. That had been his first priority. He had operated in a field hospital, slicked up to his elbows in blood and seen quivering organs exposed to the arid desert wind, broken and jagged bones gleaming obscenely white in the sun, and human bodies blown to mere bits and pieces from a bomb. The task had fallen to him to heal them all and he had done his very best. He had smelt blood and gore and death and had never really been the same person afterwards.

Which was why, when he opened the fridge in 221B, and found a decapitated head staring blankly back at him from beside the leftovers from last night, he was more angry than disgusted.

_Yes_, the head should not have been there, and _yes_, it was a huge shock to find it but…had Sherlock really had to place the head so near the perishables?

"Sherlock- there's a bloody head in the fridge!"

"Mm, yes, I'm aware, John. Although if you will look closely it's actually not _blood_ that's-"

"I don't care what it is! What have I told you?"

"Many, many things. To which specifically would you be referring to now?"

John glared at Sherlock's indifferent gaze and crossed his arms.

"Experiments don't go on that shelf."

"The head was too large to place anywhere else!" Sherlock protested, sounding like the voice of reason. "Where would you have had me put it?"

"Anywhere besides right next to the bloody food, Sherlock! It's unsanitary."

John sometimes wondered how Sherlock's other flatmates had dealt with his gruesome experiments. Obviously not well considering Sherlock had undergone a steady turnover of flats and had never been able to keep a flatmate longer than a week or so before he met John. John could tolerate Sherlock's experiments because he had usually seen worse than anything Sherlock could procure from Molly or his other…contacts.

When Sherlock made no move to relocate the head to another shelf, John sighed in defeat and slumped into his armchair

"Why do I even bother?"

"_I_ have no idea, John, and _that_ is saying something."

"Shut up, Sherlock."

John was just relaxing when a thought occurred.

"Sherlock…what's all over the head if not blood?"


	13. Brave

**More BAMF!John Watson.**

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There's all sorts of bravery in the world. There's the "charging into a burning building to save my kids" bravery. The "speaking up for the downtrodden" bravery or the "speaking my mind even though mine is the unpopular opinion" bravery. There's admirable bravery, foolish bravery, bravery under fire, bravery against all odds. The list could go on.

If anyone were asked who knew him, they'd say John Watson was brave. He'd been an army doctor in Afghanistan- brave. Wounded in action- obviously brave. He befriended a self-described sociopath who got off on crime scenes and placed John and his own life in danger- stupendously and perhaps, slightly foolishly, brave. John is brave, without a doubt, no question about it.

So when he raced after the criminal who'd choked Sherlock almost into unconsciousness before he managed to arrive on scene (he and Sherlock would have a row later because "telling-off-idiotic-geniuses" bravery is what John is ALL about these days), he had no qualms about launching himself at the much taller than him felon because John Watson has bravery in _spades_. As he held down the struggling criminal and saw Sherlock and Lestrade running towards him, spectacular bruises already forming about Sherlock's neck, John realized he could've lost him. And well, John's bravery knows when it's time to man the fuck up and _act_.

So John closed the distance between he and Sherlock and mashed his lips to the consulting detective's. He had to stand on his toes to accomplish this maneuver but being brave meant that while John was aware of the fact that this probably made him look stupid and weak he did it the fuck anyway.

When he pulled away, he told a stunned Sherlock all the things he should've told him months ago. He told him he was in love with him. He told him he may not exactly be gay but who the fuck cared because he lusted after Sherlock with every fibre of his being. He told him he wanted to spend the rest of his life with him and many other things that John would blush over later but at the time he didn't really care because he loved the man standing in front of him. With all his heart…and he told him.

Bravery takes a lot of shapes and forms. Telling your friend, who has never given any indication that they may reciprocate your feelings, you're in love with him is number one on the bravery scale.

There was never anything to worry about, though.

Sherlock grinned and said, "Took you long enough."

And as they kissed again, John was eternally grateful that he was brave.

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**I like writing long, drawn out, sweet and sappy ways for John and Sherlock to get together, but in my opinion, I would say that John would finally one day just snap and either shout it at Sherlock or snog him senseless _then_ tell him. :)**


	14. Breathe

**This is the previous chapter from Sherlock's point of view.**

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John Watson takes his breath away.

This occurrence has happened many times since he first met John, and Sherlock is convinced it will happen many more times in the future, so long as he knows the sometimes volatile doctor. John is forever surprising him, saying things, and acting in ways that astonish Sherlock and make him re-evaluate his doctor- again- and gasp for air as he enjoys the feeling of shock throughout his body.

Sherlock had known John was in love with him. It was obvious and had been apparent (at least to Sherlock) for a while. He also knew John would never act on these feelings. He would continue to date, eventually marry, and have children. The two of them would drift apart, meeting only occasionally, until John rarely thought about Sherlock at all and only then to remember him with a fond exasperation as "That nutter I once lived with."

Then John surprised him and took his breath away.

To be accurate, the murderer had taken his breath away first. Sherlock had ran ahead of John, expecting to subdue the criminal easily- and instead found himself lying on the dirty pavement being choked with surprising force and determination. Black spots danced about his vision and his throat burnt in agony. Sherlock wondered if he were dying. How incredibly disappointing to die like this.

John's furious face had loomed into Sherlock's blotchy range of vision over the criminal's shoulder. Seconds later said criminal was flying through the air, his hands ripped away from Sherlock's grateful throat, and was being chased by an enraged John Watson.

By the time Sherlock and Lestrade had arrived on the scene, John had subdued the criminal, which was just as Sherlock had expected.

Sherlock had _not_ expected John to angrily stride over to him, raise up on his toes, grab him, and kiss him. Sherlock had _not_ deduced that reaction.

John Watson stole his breath away.

The kiss hadn't been gentle. It had been demanding, exhilarating, promising, dangerous, and a hundred other things that Sherlock tried to process as John's hands gripped his head and he responded to the kiss with no hesitation. Sherlock had wondered what it would feel like to kiss John for months and now he was trying to analyze the various sensations before it ended. John pulled away too soon though and began babbling about how he loved him and wanted to spend the rest of his life with him.

Sherlock had known all that. He wanted to go back to the kissing.

"Took you long enough."

John moved in to kiss him and, once again, left Sherlock reeling, struggling to breathe.


	15. An Unexpected Date

Greg rested his head on the plush leather seat of the car and closed his eyes. It had been a long day, and it had just been made longer by an impromptu kidnapping. Across from him, Anthea silently typed away on her phone, only sparing him the barest of glances and a smile. You'd think after everything they'd been through, all the countless abductions, Anthea would at least have something to say, Greg thought idly, wondering where Mycroft would be meeting him and what the hell it was about this time.

"We're here." Anthea said, leaning across to open Greg's door then sitting back, eyes still glued to her phone.

"What- you're not coming?" Anthea usually followed him to make sure he actually met Mycroft and didn't skive off.

"No."

Greg shrugged and climbed out of the car, pausing, when he saw where they were. A restaurant? And not abandoned, which was the usual, but actually in operation from the looks of it.

O-k, weird, but then this was Mycroft. What else did he expect but to be always surprised?

As soon as he walked in, Greg spotted Mycroft as he was the only person in the restaurant. Ok, so only partially abandoned.

Mycroft stood beside a table near the back of the room, and smiled as Greg made his way over. Greg felt himself smiling back, his annoyance melting away.

"So, what's all this?" He asked, glancing around at the empty, semi-darkened restaurant, lit only by candles. What the hell was Mycroft doing?

"A date."

"Sorry- _what_? What do you mean 'a date'?" Greg asked, feeling as if he'd missed a step going down.

"I've recently observed a scene which inspired me to take bold action as regards our relationship."

Greg didn't understand what the hell Mycroft was talking about but he was sure that was just as the infuriating man wanted.

"You couldn't have just, you know…asked me out?" It sounded ridiculous when he said it and Greg looked away at the flickering candles. They were two grown men and he sounded like they were teenagers.

Mycroft smiled thinly. "We've tried the traditional route. This is much more direct- and thus far, the results have been superior. Do you not agree?"

Greg looked at Mycroft whose face was carefully, politely blank, ready to take Greg's rejection just as easily as his acceptance. Hadn't he been trying to date Mycroft for the longest? He'd be the idiot Sherlock always called him to pass this up.

Greg grinned. "Yeah."

Mycroft gestured for him to sit.

"Mycroft-"

Whatever Greg had been about to say was interrupted by the chime of Mycroft's Blackberry.

* * *

**Cliffhangers! *throws confetti* **

**So, in this story sequence, Mycroft was watching via CCTV John be all BAMF! with Sherlock, kissing him and confessing his love. This inspired Mycroft to finally square things away with Greg and stop their dancing around each other. :) Hope you enjoyed reading. **

**Care to review? ;)**


	16. An Unexpected Call

**I apologize for the previous cliffhanger and I hope this chapter makes up for that. I suppose this is getting a bit dragged out but, well, I can promise some sweet lovings soon. Does that work? :)**

* * *

"Excuse me." Mycroft smiled thinly and reached into his breastpocket, withdrawing his phone and raising his eyebrows when he saw who was calling. "Yes."

Greg mutely watched Mycroft listen to whoever was on the line talk. Mycroft visibly paled and Greg felt his stomach drop in dread.

"_Do_ _not_ let him escape this time." Mycroft said, real urgency in his tone. "I'll be right there." Mycroft ended the call. "Urgent business, I'm afraid, has called me away." He grabbed his umbrella and inclined his head. "I apologize for the way this night has ended…Greg."

Greg shrugged, disappointed but trying to understand. His work took him away like this all the time, which had sort of contributed to the break-up of his marriage. Well, that and his wife's penchant for sleeping with every guy she met. Greg suddenly wondered, despondently, if he and Mycroft would ever get together or if one or the other's work would always be calling and interrupting.

"My car will wait outside for you, should you wish to stay and eat. I know you haven't had dinner yet. Anything you wish to order will, of course, be my treat. Excuse me." Mycroft bowed and smiled, distracted, his mind already obviously working on the problem that was waiting for him…wherever it was he was going. Greg wondered but knew better than to ask and he turned to watch Mycroft walk hastily away.

"Hey, Mycroft!" Greg suddenly called, jogging towards the younger man who paused and turned.

"Yes?"

Greg took a deep breath before he leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to Mycroft's lips. He felt Mycroft stiffen against him and Greg felt the shock of the kiss down to his toes, his heart stuttered, and goose flesh broke out on his arms. It was the best rush he had experienced from kissing someone- ever- and Greg wanted to keep going, wanted to keep kissing Mycroft and so much more- but then he remembered that Mycroft was on his way to save the free world and probably didn't have time for a snog. Greg reluctantly pulled away.

Mycroft's eyes were large in his face, surprised, and he seemed frozen in place. Greg cleared his throat, and rubbed a hand through his hair, uneasy but not regretting kissing the man. He'd do it again in a heartbeat.

"Just wanted to say, you know, thanks for tonight. It was…great."

"It was my pleasure." Mycroft said, eyes still wide and voice low, subdued. "I really must-"

"Yeah, I know. Be safe."

Mycroft nodded, still looking shocked. "Bye."

Greg, leaning against the door as he watched Mycroft's car drive away, echoed his words. "Bye."


	17. Goings-On In the Lab At St Bart's

**Here is the delivery of the sweet lovings I promised last chapter, Johnlock-style. Yes, I'm aware that John uses a line on Sherlock but Captain John Hamish Watson can say whatever the f**k he wants. :D **

**Enjoy :)**

* * *

"You do realize this is completely mental?" John asked conversationally, as he unbuttoned his shirt and threw it somewhere behind him in the dimly lit lab. Sherlock's hands skimmed along his bared torso, eyes deducing years' worth of information from the still-toned and pale physique before him. John swallowed and had to close his eyes, unable to look at Sherlock while he was staring at him _that way. _Like he was something infinitely special and amazing.

"I'm aware, John." Sherlock replied, brushing his thumbs over John's nipples, eliciting shivers, before he lowered his head and allowed his lips to follow in their wake.

"We could just…you know…ha-have our f-first time be…something…normal. Bed. In the…in the _oh, god_…flat. Without the…chance of getting c-caught."

"Does that really sound…stimulating?" Sherlock asked, taking it upon himself to unbutton John's trousers and then push them down to pool at the man's ankles.

"It's going to be special no matter where we are- cause it'll be with you."

Sherlock froze in the act of palming John's growing erection and stared at his new boyfriend with wide eyes.

"You mean that." He whispered, his voice awed. "You wouldn't be bored?"

"_Bored_?" John's voice rose a few octaves and he snorted, tousling Sherlock's hair, earning him a frown. "Of the two of us _you're_ the one who'll be bored the most. I'll have to _invent_ positions just to keep you from leaving me." His words were playful but there was an undercurrent of sadness there as well that un-nerved Sherlock. He stared at John, frowning, eyes flicking over the shorter man's face.

He pulled away and pressed his lips together. "Get your clothes on."

"What- why?" John asked, alarmed, thinking they had been caught. He whipped his head around, ready to dive to the floor in order to conceal his erection- which was obscenely tenting the front of his pants. He relaxed when he saw no one, though the door was still unlocked and the potential that someone _could_ walk in remained.

Sherlock had already turned away and was shrugging back into his shirt, his fingers nimbly re-buttoning and concealing the smooth, pale flesh John had so assiduously revealed only minutes earlier.

"What's wrong?" John asked, pulling up his trousers.

Sherlock shook his head and finished getting dressed while John located his shirt and struggled into it. When he was finally dressed and ready to go, Sherlock turned to him.

"We're going back to the flat where you will proceed to fuck me in our bedroom. Problem?"

John gaped at Sherlock before shaking his head wordlessly. Sherlock smirked and pulled him from the room, both eager to leave the building.


	18. Goings-On In the Bedroom At 221B

**More sweet lovings, as promised. Note: In my head, John convinced Sherlock to let him bottom for their first time due to deep, lovely reasons he only half revealed to Sherlock. Enjoy :)**

* * *

Sherlock wasn't as oblivious as everyone thought. True, he was a virgin but he knew the mechanics, implications, consequences, emotions, and science that went along with having sex. His knowledge was second-hand, but well-researched and accumulated from years of observing such things in others. He'd built an extensive knowledge base and felt very well-prepared to engage in sex with John.

There was, however, a vast difference between intellectually knowing and actually _experiencing_.

Nothing could explain the sickly swooping sensation in his stomach as he and John kissed, as they removed every layer of clothing between them, knowing where this was leading as their bodies melded together.

No book or website could accurately describe the horrible, churning _need_ that built in his body and left him shaking as he carefully prepared John, listening with rapt attention to John's murmured, breathy instructions. The need clashed with his fear that he would somehow hurt John even as his soon-to-be-lover looked up at him with love and trust in his eyes, emotions he felt he hadn't earned.

It was pleasure that was almost pain, that first thrust, and the worst sort of physical torture to remain motionless and give John time to adjust. Agony to feel John clench around him and observe the stark desire on his now-lover's face.

It was overwhelming relief when John finally allowed him to thrust, urging him faster and harder with warm hands at his hips, heels digging almost painfully into Sherlock's back but he barely felt them.

Nothing, _nothing_ he ever could have read, seen, or heard could've prepared Sherlock for the sharp and steady rise of his orgasm. The feeling began in his lower abdomen, spread sweetly through his hips, tingled in his spine. His heart picked up pace, his face flushed, and he gasped for breath, eyes wild and surprised as he stared down at John who understood and smiled and pulled him down for a searing kiss.

"Come, my darling." He whispered against Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock gasped as his body responded, giving only a few more thrusts before he came, his spine arching painfully, the edges of his vision going fuzzy, and he made noises he'd be ashamed of if he were with anyone except his John.

When the maelstrom ended, he knew John wanted to come as well, but he couldn't help but revel at the _look_ in John's eyes. He kissed him, wanting John to understand what he was trying to say. It was only when John did and told him he loves him too that Sherlock pulled away enough to wrap his hand around John's erection, stroke firmly, and listen to him gasp.

"Oh, bugger."


	19. I Know

**I don't know what happened. I really don't. *shakes head***

**The next time I update this will be for Red Pants Monday (again) and will be Johnlock. I'm pretty sure it's the kinkiest thing I will have ever posted. Lol**

* * *

Greg couldn't believe his luck.

He and Mycroft were now three hours into their date and so far there hadn't been any unexpected calls, no murders or crimes requiring Greg to leave early, no evil villains popping up and interrupting, no Sherlockian antics- nothing to ruin what had been a perfect evening.

"Gregory." Mycroft smiled as the car pulled to a stop outside Greg's flat and the chauffeur hurried to open Greg's door. "Will you permit me to walk you to the door?"

Greg grinned and nodded, knowing what was going to happen when they reached his door, despite Mycroft being classy about it.

He wasn't disappointed.

Their lips met, gentle and hesitant, and excitement exploded through Greg's body. He had waited _ages_ to kiss Mycroft and wouldn't be satisfied with just a little peck. He wrapped his fingers around Mycroft's perfectly knotted red tie, winding it around his hand and used it to drag the taller man closer. Mycroft made a surprised sound against Greg's lips and his body swayed forward, bumping into Greg and pushing him hard against the door. Greg hissed when he felt Mycroft's erection press against his hip, covered by that sophisticated suit, and he wanted to grind against him.

"Apologies." Mycroft murmured, his cheeks flushed in genuine embarrassment, and tried to pull away and be a gentleman.

Greg had other ideas.

He used the tie to pull Mycroft back and commenced kissing him, licking his way past Mycroft's tightly closed lips and tangling their tongues together. Mycroft moaned and Greg wanted to grin, do a victory dance, something, _anything_, because _he_ was the one getting Mycroft fucking Holmes all hot and bothered and _fuck_ that was The. Biggest Turn on. Ever.

"Wanna come up?" Greg asked, now grinding shamelessly against Mycroft, eliciting breathy gasps from both of them.

"Yes…please." Mycroft replied, panting slightly, and Greg groaned, wanting to fuck the aristocratic bastard until he couldn't remember his polite manners and was just babbling in desire and _need_. He wasn't even sure that was possible…but he felt man enough to _try_.

Greg bit Mycroft's lip gently and used that to tug him forward. He released him when Mycroft whined and opened the door to his flat. "My bedroom's upstairs."

Mycroft smirked, regaining some of his former arrogance even though his tie was skewed, his suit wrinkled, his trousers unable to hide his erection, and his lips were rosy and kiss swollen.

Greg had to admire the man for making a valiant effort.

"I know."

Greg laughed and dragged Mycroft into the flat. Together, laughing, they ran up the stairs to his bedroom faster than a speeding bullet.


	20. Show Me

**Hello lovelies! This is a drabble inspired by the wonderful JPerceval over on AO3. After reading "The Raid, Pt.2" she commented that the only way Sherlock could convince John he was telling the truth about what he used the red pants for would be by providing a demonstration. And I wrote this. :D**

**Happy Red Pants Monday!**

* * *

"Show me."

Two simple words that would have surprising and pleasurable consequences

John hadn't thought saying those words would result in this. Well, not precisely _this_- he had been expecting…well, he wasn't sure _what_ he'd been expecting.

It hadn't been this.

He watched with bated breath as Sherlock threw his head back and ran the length of red fabric over his hardening cock. John's eyes drank in the movement and he shifted his position beside Sherlock on the bed, feeling himself growing hard watching his boyfriend wank using his red pants.

It had all started normally enough. John, as he was making their now-shared bed after cleaning the sheets (if he waited for Sherlock to do this it would never get done) found his red pants- the same pair of pants they had fought with Sherlock about over a month ago. They had been stuffed between the two mattresses and John had pulled them out, frowning in puzzlement. They weren't creased as they should have been if Sherlock had just shoved them under the mattress and then forgotten about them. They were newly pressed, obviously well washed and taken care of, and John was genuinely perplexed.

"I told you, John." Sherlock had calmly replied after John had asked him about the pants, not even opening his eyes as he sprawled on the sofa in his trademark "thinking pose." "I masturbated with them."

"Show me."

Sherlock's long fingered hand gripped the cloth and teasingly ran it along his length, barely brushing the fabric over his skin. John watched gooseflesh break out along Sherlock's legs from the contact, his hairs standing up, and he flexed his hips up minutely, seeking more contact than just that teasing caress.

"Oh, god," John mouthed, licking his lips, wanting to give Sherlock that contact but he had asked for a demonstration, not a hands-on experience.

Sherlock's eyes opened, the pupils swallowing up the much beloved blue of his irises, and he smirked over at John. He didn't say a word but repeated the movement with the red pants, allowing his eyes to close again as if that drag of cotton over his erection was the best feeling in the world. He groaned, the sound coming from deep in his chest, and stroked his cock while he brought the red pants up to his face, burying his nose in the crotch and inhaling deeply.

The noise John made was entirely unmanly and he didn't give a flying fuck.

Sherlock bit his lip as he trailed the red pants down his bare chest, gasping at the contact, opening his eyes wide and unseeing, lost in a fantasy. He slid the pants down and, after running them along his length again, wrapped them around his cock and gently pumped his hand a few times, the tip of his penis disappearing beneath the gaudily colored fabric, then reappearing enticingly. John licked his lips at the sight, his breathing shaky and uneven.

After a minute of this, during which time Sherlock's breathing became more labored and his lips opened in an enticingly shocked "O," he removed the red pants and ran them over his thighs, his hips, even as his hand kept moving, becoming almost a blur at his now leaking cock. He brought the pants back to his face but instead of inhaling, caressed his cheek and neck with them, gasping and moaning.

"_John_," he whispered, his voice reverent, saying the name as if it were a plea, a prayer, the best sound he could think of in that moment. "_John_."

Sherlock's hand became more hurried, and he gasped in pleasure. He brought the red pants back to rest beside his cock, the fabric just brushing his base, and palmed them, running them between his fingers and clenching them in his fist. His other hand continued to move, the speed increasing. His toes curled and his hips began thrusting into his hand, erratic and quick.

"John, John…John…Oh…_Jo-oohn_."

John couldn't stand being a spectator anymore. He lunged forward and crashed his lips to Sherlock's, swallowing Sherlock's agonized groan as he came. Sherlock's mouth went lax against his as he rode the waves of his orgasm, his hips snapping up with each new wash of pleasure, and John bit at those lips, nibbling at the exaggerated cupid's bow. Slowly, Sherlock eventually began to respond, lazily, with lassitude, and John kissed him back, almost grinning at how wrecked Sherlock always became after an orgasm.

Shortly, John became aware of Sherlock's hand carding through his hair and he was abruptly pushed back against the bed, six plus feet of consulting detective sprawled above him.

"Can't believe you were doing that with my pants….all that time." He gasped as Sherlock began kissing his way down his neck.

Sherlock laughed, now kissing and licking his way down John's stomach, his destination his lover's prominent erection, already anticipating how to make his John beg.


	21. There's Always Something New To Learn

**I'm not sure at what point I decided these would be so...smutty.**

**This chapter is for Morgana-le-Fai who said she wanted Mycroft and Greg's first time together. I hadn't planned on writing that until I got your review, dear. So this one's for you :)**

* * *

Greg hadn't been a virgin since he was 16 years old. In retrospect, he probably shouldn't have lost his virginity in so remarkable a fashion- sharing a stolen bottle of liquor to gain courage and then forgetting to wear the condom, thus spending an anxious few weeks praying Megan McCannister wasn't pregnant. The sex hadn't even been that good. Greg had been too worried about coming too soon, sure he couldn't live down the shame if he did, and Megan hadn't seemed all that impressed with his technique anyway.

Mycroft hadn't been a virgin since he was 15. It had been a quick coupling with his Latin tutor, a man who'd been almost 20 years his senior. It happened at his family's home during one of his tutoring sessions. Mycroft had been bored, curious, and his Latin tutor…well, he had seen an opportunity in the somewhat shy but beautiful and intelligent young man.

It had been many years since Mycroft and Greg had been virgins, and they had enjoyed a string of lovers over the years. One would think, by the time they found each other, sex would have been slightly played out, no longer quite as exciting as it had been in years past. With all that experience between them, it would be expected they would have gained a wonderful finesse to their technique that would have resulted in an amazing display of passion.

Instead, there were shaking hands and swooping stomachs. Nervous laughter and rueful smiles. Greg's hands fumbled at Mycroft's buttons and accidentally ripped them from his expensive shirt. Mycroft's hands slipped from underneath him and he sprawled gracelessly atop Greg, slightly crushing the older man. There was a distinct lack of finesse involved in this, but somehow, that made it all the more special.

It didn't matter because they reached the same place in the end:

Joined together, lips clashing, gasping for air, feeling the frantic racing of their hearts. Soaring higher and higher to those well-know, spectacular heights.

Greg didn't manage to reduce Mycroft's verbal skills to the level he wanted, however, he thought everyone needed a goal in life.

In a world where he was always in control, always knowledgeable, Mycroft realized there was always something new to learn. Before, this would have filled him with an insatiable urge to find everything out as soon as possible so the thing, whatever it was, was no longer a mystery to him.

Mycroft wrapped himself around Greg and decided some mysteries were best not revealed too quickly.

As they slowly drifted down from on high, their breathing turned slow and even, and they fell asleep beneath the blankets.


	22. Conductor Of Light

**This is just a drabble I had to write when I found the item in question. Yes! This actually exists. The link will be on my profile page! :D I want this.  
**

* * *

"Sherlock, what is this?"

No response.

"Sherlock?"

"What?"

"_What is this_?"

"I would think that would be obvious, John. Even to you."

John glared at his boyfriend, who lounged casually in the doorway to their bedroom, then looked back to what had caught his attention in the first place.

There, on Sherlock's dresser, was a glowing hedgehog lamp.

John knew what this meant.

He knew what people said about him- that he looked like a cute little hedgehog. He didn't know where they drew the resemblances because he looked _nothing_ like the diminutive, spiky, mammals. People continually said he did, though, and there was a rather large and embarrassing following on the internet comparing him to the animals in various and humiliating ways.

Sherlock had first told him about it.

Now, though, John was close to drawing a large line at having a hedgehog lamp in the bedroom where he and Sherlock made love. It was one thing for it to be all over the internet and John could pretend people were weird and let it alone. It was another for Sherlock to purchase such a thing and then put it in such an obvious place.

"I thought it was…cute."

John glared at Sherlock who, sensing he was about to lose what was truly a spectacular lamp that, from the first moment he saw it, had reminded him of his boyfriend, tried a different tactic.

"You'll never be the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light, you're unbeatable! Now, you're actually a conductor of light!"

Sherlock looked so happy that John was forced to smile and shake his head, allowing Sherlock to kiss him and melt away the rest of his resistance.

"It's a good job you like hedgehogs then because that's what I am, apparently."

"I utterly adore hedgehogs, John."


	23. Cuddling

**Here's some cuddle!lock in celebration of a truly gorgeous, sunny day in Spring :D**

* * *

"Just cut it off, John."

"There's just…If I could-"

"_Ouch_!"

"Sorry…Maybe if we tried-"

"John. It's not going to work. The scissors are in the refrigerator next to the butter dish. Just cut it off and have done with it."

There was silence from the short man beside him and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"_John_."

Finally, John sighed, rose from his knees on the bathroom floor and shuffled into the kitchen to get the scissors. He found them exactly where Sherlock had said. He ran them under some hot water and soap, mindful they could have been used for anything considering it was Sherlock who'd used them last, before shuffling reluctantly back into the bathroom where Sherlock was lounging in the tub, his eyes closed.

John took a moment to appreciate the sight before him- Sherlock's lanky, pale body glistening and wet with water. Droplets snaked their way down his chest, across his arms, and John unconsciously licked his lips, imaging himself tracing the trails they left on that flawless skin. Sherlock's face was relaxed as he came down from the high of their latest case, which had included, among other frightening things, curious little children who had wondered what would happen if they placed their gum in the strange and rude detective's hair.

As a result, Sherlock's hair was a mess. Bright pink bubble gum was matted in a hopeless tangle through his curls.

John knelt once more on the tiles and ran a critical eye over the mess. Sherlock had demanded John cut his hair as soon as they walked through the door- but John had persevered, not wanting to resort to the shears. For the last hour, he'd tried everything he could think of to rid Sherlock's beautiful curls of the multiple sticky wads of gum. Sherlock hadn't been pleased with some of his methods. The peanut butter had gotten everywhere and the cooking oil had been a disaster. John had thought the Vaseline was working for a brief time, but, alas, no luck.

John ran his fingers through the wet, matted curls and Sherlock's eyes opened, running over John's face before he frowned.

"I don't know why you're so upset. It's not _your_ hair being butchered."

John shrugged and lifted a damp strand of pink and brown hair.

"Ready?"

"I was ready an hour ago." Came the bitter reply.

John, rolling his eyes, set to work. _Snip-snip-snip_. He tried not to cut too much but the gum had really worked it's way through and in some parts was close to Sherlock's scalp. Sighing, he cut the lot, evening the length all around and wincing internally each time he clipped another beautiful curl.

Soon, there was a surprisingly large pile of chocolate curls on the bathroom tiles and a depressing lack of them on Sherlock's head.

"There. Done." John finally declared, lowering the shears and gazing at his newly shorn boyfriend with sad eyes.

Sherlock ran a hand experimentally over his short hair, now almost as short and spiky as his love's and no longer curling, satisfied there was no longer anything sticky in it…and then saw John's downcast face as he glanced at the discarded hair on the floor. Sherlock felt a swell of pity for him, even if he didn't understand _why_ John was so upset. In truth, Sherlock would miss his hair just a little, if only because John would no longer be running his fingers through it when they kissed, would no longer tug on it as they made love, wouldn't ruffle it affectionately and grin, even if such an action made Sherlock equal parts want to kill him and kiss him senseless.

He tugged John down into the bath, ignoring John's protests that he was fully clothed, he'd get wet, the tub wasn't big enough for the two of them.

John finally capitulated and huffed, climbing into the bath and laying down so his face rested on Sherlock's wet chest, his clothed body settled comfortably between Sherlock's splayed legs.

"It's just hair." Sherlock said, wrapping his arms around John, knowing he was stating the obvious but it sometimes seemed John needed him to say that which was apparent, like when John asked him to tell him he loved him. He kissed his blogger's head and nuzzled his nose into John's own short and spiky hair. "It will grow back."


	24. The Hedgehog Was Lonely

**After Chapter 22, a lot of people wanted a companion piece with something to do with an otter. I, of course, agreed. :) The link for this plushie can be found on my profile page.**

* * *

"John, what is this?"

"Hmm? I'd think you'd be able to deduce that for yourself-"

"Sarcasm doesn't become you, John. _Obviously_, I know what it is. _What_ is it doing in our bedroom?"

John beamed at his boyfriend who was currently very angry and glowering at him. Sherlock's glare intensified as he transferred his gaze to the furry little stuffed animal which was currently keeping the glowing hedgehog company on their dresser. John had found it online last week and ordered it express, somehow managing to keep it a secret from Sherlock- and that in itself had been a miracle from On High.

"I think it's _cute_." John replied innocently, smiling over at the upright, brown otter plush toy which currently sported a warm looking blue scarf wound about it's neck, courtesy of Mrs. Hudson.

"I know what this is about." Sherlock said warningly. "I know this is your retaliation for the lamp, though I didn't think you would stoop so low as _this_. I know this has to do with those…those _blogs_ comparing me to those disgusting animals-"

"Sherlock-"

"_I look nothing like an otter!"_ Sherlock yelled, grabbing the plushie by it's neck and gesturing at John with it.

John crossed his arms and gazed steadily at his irate lover.

"The hedgehog was lonely."

Sherlock's face was suddenly transported from anger to chagrin and he glanced down at the otter he still had gripped in his fist. He glanced over at John, then at the glowing hedgehog, which had seemed to grow a bit dimmer in the absence of it's beloved friend.

John, biting his lip to keep from grinning, watched as Sherlock gently placed the toy back beside the hedgehog, arranging it in such a way the two were touching, obviously together and out on an important case. Or perhaps they were merely in love and unable to be apart from each other for long. Either interpretation was accurate. Sherlock straightened the blue scarf, re-knotting it in his signature style, before dropping his hands and staring at the display.

Sherlock looked very pleased and John felt his heart swell with warmth.

"I _love_ otters," John said. "They look happy together."

He watched as heat pooled in Sherlock's eyes at the comment and something decidedly pleasant fluttered in the pit of John's stomach at that look.

* * *

An hour later, the two lay curled together in their bed, the only light coming from the softly glowing hedgehog across the room. Sherlock trailed a hand up and down John's spine, feeling his blogger relaxing and slowly drifting to sleep.

"I still look nothing like an otter, John."

"Mmm. Yeah, you do. A bit."


	25. Under Surveillance

**Oh, hello Mystrade! Where have you been?**

* * *

"You've got me under surveillance."

Mycroft looked up from his paperwork, which was spread across his large desk and had been occupying him for the last eight, tedious hours, and stared blankly over at Gregory. His lover had just stormed into his office and now stood in front of his desk, hands on hips, chest heaving as he panted in fury.

"I've always had you watched." Mycroft freely admitted. There was no reason to hide it and he had assumed Gregory had always known. _Everyone_ knew he had them under surveillance- from John and Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson and Molly, to the man who tailored Sherlock's suits. "Why are you so upset about it _now_, love?"

Greg's eyes widened and his face took on a dangerously ruddy tone as Mycroft realized he'd said something not good. He got a sudden, horrible taste of what life was always like for Sherlock- and hoped Greg was as forgiving as John.

"_Always_? Since _when_?" Greg seemed more surprised than angry but that emotion was still there, simmering under the surface, just waiting to erupt when Mycroft told him the exact date.

Since the first time you spoke to Sherlock, Mycroft thought, but he knew better _now_ than to actually say that. Instead, he folded his hands and smiled calmly. "For a while, but that's not important. It's really for your own safety, Gregory. What if-"

"Don't, Mycroft. I'm not stupid." Greg seethed as he wondered how many more times he'd have to say that to a Holmes.

He sighed and glanced down at his feet, his hands tightening on his hips as a fresh wave of anger/pain surged through him. "You don't trust me." His low voice fell into the silence of the room and seemed to echo.

"What?" Mycroft frowned at this, even to him, surprising turn. "That's absurd. I-" He broke off his denial as information crowded his brain: Gregory's wife had cheated on him. Extensively and prodigiously. Trust was therefore important to Gregory because his had been betrayed time and again as his wife prettily promised to never deceive him…and yet she would hurt him over and over without a care.

It wasn't a great leap for Gregory to then think the reason the CCTV cameras followed him was because of a lack of trust from his partner but…Mycroft _couldn't_ lift the surveillance. It was important that everything remain as it was.

If he truly hadn't known before that he was being watched, Mycroft wondered what had tipped Gregory off-

Sherlock. Mycroft's eyes quickly deduced all the answers he needed from Gregory's clothing and stance: Murder case, called in Sherlock and John (John had been sick with flu and Sherlock's nerves had been on –edge), Gregory had pressed him for clues, Sherlock had snapped, leveled insults at four- no, _five_- different people before turning to Gregory and revealing that his brother had him under surveillance.

Mycroft sighed and stood up, striding around his desk to stand in front of Greg.

"I…apologize I didn't tell you I had placed you under surveillance." Mycroft said carefully. "However, that decision had nothing to do with a lack of trust on my part and everything to do with…keeping you safe."

"I'm capable of taking care of myself." Greg said, crossing his arms and cocking his head to the side belligerently. The very image of a tough Detective Inspector. The sight made something warm and fuzzy and entirely alien rise up in Mycroft's chest but he suppressed it in order to deal with the conversation at hand.

"I don't doubt that…but dating me places you at a higher risk for danger. The people who may target you will not be average, common criminals. They will be highly skilled, ruthless, and want to use you in order to get to me. I…want to make sure you're protected. You…you matter to me in a very important way and I want to prevent anything bad happening to you." Mycroft took a deep breath after this very hard speech and watched the way Gregory took it.

Greg stared hard at him, his expression giving nothing away, and Mycroft held his breath, tense, hoping Greg believed him. He half-expected the older man to start shouting again and was already thinking of something horrible to do to Sherlock for putting him in this situation. Finally, Greg's stance changed, relaxed, and he dropped his crossed arms, reaching out and entwining his fingers with Mycroft's.

"You coulda just…you know, _told_ me." He said, still rather miffed at being followed about London but understanding where Mycroft was coming from.

Mycroft relaxed and tugged Gregory over to kiss him, doing away with the rest of his bad mood. "I promise to tell you when I upgrade your surveillance status, Gregory."

Greg grinned, easily and appeased, and allowed his boyfriend to kiss him again. "I don't doubt that, Mr. Holmes."


	26. Beyond Belief, pt 1

"Try and behave while I'm gone, all right? Harry _needs_ me right now. If you really- and I mean _really_ need me, Sherlock, not just for making tea or fetching your mobile- call me. Otherwise…I need to be with her. It's a big step for her to admit herself into rehab…"

There was no response from the long-limbed consulting detective lying on the sofa, dejectedly and pathetically bored with everything and life in general. John had hidden his gun downstairs in Mrs. Hudson's refrigerator, in the crisper drawer beneath the vegetables, and had hopes that Sherlock wouldn't find it there. It was the best he could do in this situation.

"I promise I'll be back by 9 tonight and we'll…go out and do something." John promised, though he still gained no response from his boyfriend. "Or….we could…stay in and…_experiment_."

One eye cracked open and Sherlock stared at John with vague interest.

"What sort of experiment?" His voice still held a bored and petulant edge but underneath that was intrigue, the faint stirrings of arousal as he wondered what liberties John would allow him to perpetrate on his person that had previously been denied.

John winked at him. "Use your imagination, Sherlock. I'll be back by 9. Have an idea ready."

Sherlock fidgeted, boredom evaporating as his mind began thinking of bondage.

* * *

**I finally wrote another 221B! The last one I wrote was ages ago! This will be a two-part sequence, as you can see from the chapter title. The other will be up tomorrow ;)**


	27. Beyond Belief, pt 2

**A 442B smut-fic. I literally have no more shame after writing this. It's not possible. Thanks if you still read anything of mine after this. :)**

* * *

Sherlock observed his boyfriend, magnificently naked, spread out beneath him and grinning cockily, despite his wrists being restrained to the headboard by standard-issue handcuffs. John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock's slow perusal.

"See something you like?" he teased.

Sherlock cocked his head to the side thoughtfully. "Not yet." He replied, his dark voice rolling over John, making him squirm self-consciously and frown, wondering what Sherlock had planned, suspicion beginning to creep in, and self-doubt that whispered maybe he shouldn't have let Sherlock do this in the first place.

_That_ reaction was what Sherlock wanted to see.

An hour later, Sherlock finally saw more of what he liked: John, mouth open and panting, hips thrusting up, desperately seeking the contact Sherlock was denying, eyes wild, words spilling from his lips that matched the pleading, urgent look in his eyes.

"_Now_ I see something I like." Sherlock whispered, running his tongue up the length of John's cock, which looked almost painful in it's flushed arousal.

"_Sherlock_- _pleasepleaseplease_." John's hips rose again, seeking more friction. Sherlock pulled away with a grin and watched John sob and vainly jerk at the handcuffs, his heels skidding along the sheets, trying to pull Sherlock closer.

He let John beg for a few more minutes, running his fingertips up the length of his shaft, teasing him further, darkly enjoying it and John's utter helplessness, such a stark contrast to the usually stoic and in-control soldier, before moving over him. John's pleas reached a different pitch and he lifted his hips, letting Sherlock ease inside him with a relieved sigh that turned into an agonized moan as Sherlock began moving. Sherlock snapped his hips, blessedly, thankfully, agonizingly, fantastically, and most importantly _finally_ giving John the friction he needed to come.

John gave a distressed noise when Sherlock wrapped his hand around his cock and stroked it. His eyes slammed closed, his spine bowed, and he made a truly inhuman sound as he orgasmed, the seconds feeling as if they lengthened into minutes. He cried out, his mind blanked, he saw stars, and angels began singing. John felt he may have even blacked out slightly because when he became aware again, Sherlock had already came and was slipping from his body, a horribly satisfied and smug look on his face as he looked down at John.

"Was that experiment to your satisfaction?" Sherlock purred, reaching up languidly to unlock the handcuffs and rubbing John's reddened wrists with gentle fingers.

"Beyond belief." John sighed, his voice shaky and hoarse. He relaxed, boneless, into the mattress. He grinned up at Sherlock and pulled him down into a kiss. "You complete and utter _bastard_."


	28. Grand Theft Auto

Sherlock's day started with a phone call.

The phone call progressed to a crime scene, which then led to the morgue, the lab, and would have led to an investigation in an abandoned building but unforeseen circumstances arose in the form of The British Government.

Mycroft's involvement in _Sherlock's_ case was an unwelcome but expected twist considering there were international ties to the demented villain threatening their fair city. Only _Mycroft_ knew his involvement was purely because Sherlock was without his faithful blogger-turned-boyfriend by his side. John's assertion that his job was more important than random cases in which his only contribution was handing Sherlock his phone had convinced Sherlock not to contact him on this one.

Mycroft would never admit this to Sherlock, of course, but he worried about his brother. Constantly. Even more so when he didn't have the trigger-happy John Watson covering him.

Over the next eight hours, there was a rather large explosion at the aforementioned abandoned building, a stolen car (Sherlock was grudgingly impressed with Mycroft' hot-wiring abilities, though he would rather die than admit it), a thrilling game of identity theft (Mycroft was mother), and a gun fight in the sewers. An impromptu stitching-up was then performed on a whining elder brother, there was a chase, a remarkable take-down, an arrest, and a trip to hospital for the younger brother involving nine stitches, a large plaster on his hip, and painkillers that were promptly taken away from him by his older brother with a stern look.

It was while he was rushing his brother back to Baker Street before John arrived there first, that Mycroft realized why Sherlock was looking so worried the closer they got to the flat.

"We don't have to tell any of this to your boyfriend."

Sherlock looked over at him with lowered brows.

"I assume that means we don't tell _yours_ either."

"Deal."

* * *

"How's your day been?" John asked, hanging up his jacket and glancing across the flat at the prone form of his boyfriend who looked as if he hadn't moved an inch since that morning. "Been a boring day?"

"Boring beyond belief." Sherlock smirked and watched John's eyes heat up briefly as memories rolled over him before his lips tightened in annoyance.

"Well, I'll be in the kitchen when you want to explain why I saw you and Mycroft on the telly earlier today hijacking a car…during this _boring_ day."

* * *

"Hey." Greg grinned over at his boyfriend whose jacket and waistcoat were tossed to the side and whose shirt-sleeves were rolled up, looking delightfully casual and sexy as he cooked them dinner. "Smells good."

"Gregory." Mycroft smiled and quickly deduced his boyfriend. "Long day?"

"Yeah, some nutter and his psycho brother went on a Grand Theft Auto spree across London chasing a criminal. I'll be doing the paperwork over this one for _days_."

"Indeed." Mycroft said mildly, still stirring, and cautiously glanced over at Greg whose hands were on his hips and expression indignant.

"_What the hell were you and Sherlock thinking?_"


	29. Is Yours Still Mad?

_Is yours still mad? MH_

_Don't text me. John is glaring at me right now because he knows it's you. Stop it. SH_

_Do tell him I apologize for the events of today, though I cannot take full responsibility for what happened. MH_

_Really, they should be thanking us for ridding London of such a horrible menace. He did have over one hundred deaths to his credit. MH_

_It won't help. After I explained about the case, John was fine and prepared to laugh about it…then he saw the stitches and started shouting. SH_

_Greg was worse. He started shouting first thing and is now refusing to speak to me. MH_

_I don't care about your trivial problems with Greg. John threw out my experiments. Some of them were very important and one of them I'm sure could have cured cancer. SH_

_That's not true, Sherlock, don't be dramatic. MH_

_John didn't know that. SH_

_And he still threw them out. SH_

_Today was…surprisingly fun, Sherlock. I would look forward to doing it again in future if you are amenable to the idea. MH_

_Perhaps you are confusing me with the dessert cart. I am not a cake, Mycroft. SH_

2 minutes later

_How dare you tell John about the gun fight! We weren't that outnumbered. SH_

_Mycroft?! Answer me you fat incompetent weakling. SH_

1 minute later

_Greg has now left the flat and is declaring a resolution to sleep at his office. Are you happy with that text you sent him, Sherlock? MH_

_Very. It achieved the results I wished. SH_

4 minutes later

_John has now left as well, you pouncy arrogant sod. SH_

_I give it two hours before they are drunk enough for us to retrieve them. MH_

_Just as well. Alcohol will mellow John to the entire incident. SH_

_You're welcome, little brother. MH_

_Sod off, Mycroft. SH_

* * *

**Well, the brotherly bonding was good while it lasted, I suppose.**


	30. Hard Work

**This turned into a full-length chapter *shrugs* Here's some angst to go along with the fluff. At least it's not smut this time. :)**

* * *

Loving a Holmes was hard work.

It wasn't just the fact that both Sherlock and Mycroft were fifty times cleverer than John and Greg on their best day _combined_ were. John admired Sherlock's intelligence, respected it, and was proud of him because of it. He'd punch anyone who said Sherlock was a freak and feel justified doing it because Sherlock was _amazing_. To be honest, some of their best sex had taken place after the culmination of a case, while, in the darkness of their bedroom, Sherlock interspersed his heated kisses and frantic thrusts with the deductions and clues that had led him to solve the case.

Mycroft's intelligence was understated and he didn't flaunt the fact that he knew everything as Sherlock did, but Greg still knew his boyfriend was a genius. He found it admirable that Mycroft used that brilliance to try and make the world a better place, though how he went about doing so was very much debatable. Greg believed in Mycroft, knew that, for all his many faults, Mycroft was a good man, and so he understood, could excuse some of the more questionable aspects of Mycroft's job. And it still amazed him that, despite having much better things to occupy his thoughts with, Mycroft made _Greg_, a divorced, almost middle-aged detective inspector, his primary focus, knew more about him than anyone else on earth did, and loved him because of it.

No, it wasn't just the super-human intelligence that made loving them hard.

It was also because both Holmes brothers possessed the knack of insulting with the barest of glances, the simplest of words, a slight raise in an eyebrow, the discreet twist of a lip, or even the deliberate straightening of a perfectly tailored suit. This was compounded by the fact that neither brother realized they'd said or done anything amiss, anything to make their lovers think "Ouch, is that what he really think of me?" and suddenly experience a crisis over whether or not they should eat less, or maybe spend more hours at the office to compensate for their complete incompetence.

There were a multitude of other reasons:

Sherlock thought any friend of John's was immediately an enemy and acted accordingly.

Mycroft had his cameras.

Sherlock had his spot-on ("That's supposed to be _private_!") deductions.

Mycroft possessed insecurities a mile wide that, when touched on, made him snappish and unapproachable.

Sherlock threw tantrums as if he were two.

Mycroft, when angered, went silent and refused to discuss the issue.

The list could go on but all those reasons are excellent ones as to why loving either Sherlock or Mycroft was hard.

However, the _main_ reason that loving those insufferable gits was hard was because they perpetually seemed hell-bent on ending their own lives in the most irresponsible of ways possible.

John couldn't count the number of times he'd saved Sherlock's life because the usually brilliant young man had done something unforgivably stupid and landed himself in a sticky situation. He couldn't count all the times…but he could vividly remember the feeling of knowing Sherlock (his best friend, his lover, his _life_) was in danger with perfect clarity. It was sickening, horrible, and afterwards John was always angry because…because…Sherlock should have _known_ better! He was supposed to be a genius! He'd rage at Sherlock even as he clutched the man tightly to him with shaking hands, his words heated and angry but his body language loving, pleading- don't ever do that again!

Greg didn't actually know how many times Mycroft, for all his security and cameras and special details, had gotten into scraps that required lightning fast deductions, fighting skills rusty with disuse, and more than a streak of sheer _luck_ in order to survive. Mycroft didn't tell him because he knew it would only upset Greg and Greg, to be completely honest, hadn't cottoned on to the fact that Mycroft was ever in any real danger. It was this, then, this _not knowing_ of all the _other_ times that made knowing how Mycroft had risked his own life _this time_ so hard for Greg.

And now, he found himself slumped in a booth in his and John's favorite pub, quiet as he sorted through all he was feeling, nursing a drink and gazing across the table at John while he raged enough for the both of them.

"- and you'd think- but of course they _don't_ think, do they? No, too much _trouble. _Probably think it's all too _dull-_"

Greg felt his mobile vibrate in his pocket and pulled it out, looking down at the screen and seeing that Mycroft had tried calling and texting quite a few times in the past hour. There were texts from Sherlock among Mycroft's but Greg didn't read them, knowing they'd be in the same vein as those earlier. Giving him hints of everything Mycroft did that he never told Greg about. It made him feel sick.

"Mycroft again." Greg said tonelessly, and at that moment, John's phone chimed and vibrated on the table and John sighed, glaring at it with pursed lips as if it were Sherlock himself. He'd deleted the ones from Mycroft, knowing what they'd say and wanting to hear it from Sherlock himself, not his catty brother.

"How long do you think we should stay mad at them?"

John looked down at his watch and frowned. "Another hour at least. Anything less and we'll look like panty-waists."

Greg downed his drink and sighed. "D'you think we're ever going to…you know…fix them?"

"Fix?" John frowned, not liking the idea of "fixing" Sherlock. There wasn't anything that really needed to be-

"Not _fix_. I didn't mean it like that I meant…like, make'em understand how we feel? I mean, I know we're all guys here so we're all supposed to be cavemen when it comes to expressing our emotions but they're…they're just. Christ." Greg rubbed his forehead, feeling a headache starting, and gratefully accepted another drink from their waitress, who'd seemed to understand that they were both here to get drunk, not mess around.

John shrugged. "I think they _do_ get it. Eventually. They know it's important to us and try and accommodate us, even if they don't _really_ understand. Like today. It was just a joke to them, but to us…."

They lapsed into silence again, both thinking of the day's events. John had seen the visible proof of the risk in Sherlock's stitches, Greg in the police report paperwork he'd been given.

"It's easier for _you_ at least." Greg suddenly said, after another round had been dropped off. "You're out there with Sherlock, able to back him up. There isn't anything I can do for Myc."

John snorted. "Yeah, I'm right there. Always there to see him dash off and risk his life- you know, one time he actually leapt from a bridge into the river? Just to prove the drop wouldn't have killed the already dead man."

Greg snorted and shook his head. "At least you _know, _though. Myc never tells me anything."

Their mobiles went off at the same time and they both looked down at the offending pieces of technology.

"Now they're just fighting with each other." John snapped, turning off his phone without looking at it and tossing it onto the table with a bit too much force.

Greg, though, was fiddling with his phone, turning it over and over in his hands, his expression pensive. "I didn't even know Mycroft had me under surveillance until Sherlock told me."

John looked over at him, frowning, not knowing how to respond to that. Even _he'd_ been sort of surprised that Greg hadn't known about the surveillance they were all under from Big Brother.

"Makes me think: what else isn't he telling me?"

"Greg-"

"They weren't even going to tell us about today! If we hadn't seen it on the telly and already known, they wouldn't have! Ever. Doesn't that bother you?"

John shrugged. "I guess….I sort of expect it, for Sherlock to not always tell me everything. I'm…used to it." He frowned again, knowing there was something wrong with that sentence. "It's sort of a game with us. He likes it when I call him on his bullshit."

"I don't want that kind of game with Mycroft." Greg responded. "I'm too old for that shit. I want an aboveboard relationship where he just _tells_ me stuff, not makes me _guess_."

Greg's phone vibrated across the table and he copied John and turned it off.

* * *

At the end of the hour, they were both plastered and John, giggling, had drunkenly texted Sherlock but hadn't let Greg read what he'd written, a guilty flush spreading along his cheeks when Greg had asked.

"Blurry Holmes." Greg slurred as he and John made their way to the door to hopefully find a cab home. Greg didn't want to have to arrest himself for public intox.

Neither man was surprised to find a familiar black car already waiting for them outside the pub.


	31. Secrets Are Like Poison

**Angst warning on the Mystrade ship! Batten down the hatches!**

* * *

Secrets are like poison.

Not all secrets, of course. Not the good sort of secrets that involve surprise birthday parties, secret jokes between friends, shagging in the men's loo while the rest of your party are unaware, or eating the last slice of cake at midnight while everyone else is asleep. These secrets are deliciously wonderful and, unless one is caught shagging or eating the cake, no harm comes to anyone. It's all in good fun with no risk of hurting anyone- except the friend who walks in to find you shagging…and then it's only their eyes that feel the pain.

There are bad sorts of secrets, though. The kind that creeps, insidious, through someone's life and steals away their peace of mind, their joy and happiness, and sometimes even their sanity. These secrets are the ones that destroy lives, break hearts, and wreck homes.

Greg, unfortunately, knew all about the bad kind of secrets. He was a seasoned Detective Inspector, accustomed to witnesses, criminals, and even his own officers keeping secrets, many of them of a dangerous and sinister sort. It wasn't just on the job, though, that Greg had learned about the horrible effects of secrets. He knew about secret meetings, secret phone calls, secret affairs, and secrets that built and built, layer after layer of betrayal and lies until finally, one day seemingly out of the blue, one's world collapsed and nothing was ever the same.

These were the sort of secrets that Greg had had enough of, had thought he'd gotten rid of after his divorce was over.

Mycroft Holmes, however, _was_ secrets.

Greg had known that. He understood that much of what Mycroft did concerning his job was top-secret and he could never tell Greg about it. There were state secrets and, in all honesty, it'd probably risk Greg's life to be told about them. He was fine with that. It wasn't great, or ideal, but he was seriously fine with not knowing the nitty-gritty of Mycroft's job. Sometimes he was curious, yeah, but just that. Hell, everyone was curious.

It was all the _other stuff_ that bothered Greg. It was the secrets Mycroft kept about his parents, about his friends and acquaintances, his house, his cameras and brother and intentions..._everything_. These were the secrets that were poisoning their relationship and it was destroying Greg, eating away at him, making him question everything and he _hated it._

Which was why he tried to talk to Mycroft about it the morning after he and John had gotten drunk. He probably should've waited until he wasn't so hung-over but he just couldn't keep it in anymore. He _had_ to talk to Mycroft about it, explain that something had to change-

"I refuse to tell you the secrets of my job that could place you at risk." Mycroft replied smoothly, cutting off Greg's tired voice as he tried to explain, haltingly (god, he was bad at this), how he felt. Greg winced at how calm and distant Mycroft's voice sounded and he swallowed.

"I know that. I'm not talking about your job- I understand that part, Myc. I'm talking about…it's…it's like yesterday. There wasn't a reason to keep that from me, but you were going to anyway. You wouldn'tve told me. That wasn't a top-secret thing- anyone with a telly saw what happened. And then there's-"

"There are aspects of my work and my life that I can never tell you. If this isn't something you can handle I suggest you leave, Gregory." Mycroft's voice was emotionless, implacable. Even the way he said Greg's name was icy, detached. His eyes were unfriendly, manner dispassionate and Greg wondered how this man was the same one he'd been with for the past few months.

Greg blinked in surprise, hurt flashing over his body in a hot wave, quickly followed by intense anger. What the hell was Mycroft's problem?

"Mycroft…That wasn't what I was meaning. I just wanted to, you know, _talk_ about this-"

"I'm afraid I don't have time to discuss _this_, Gregory." Mycroft turned away, dismissing him rudely, as Greg, slack-jawed, stood in the kitchen and understood what Mycroft was saying: Accept it or get out, that was his official stance.

Greg, clenching his jaw, bit off all the hurtful words he wanted to hurl at Mycroft. Instead, thinking "Fuck this," he grabbed up his jacket and stalked to the front door, slamming it behind him.

And Mycroft let him go.


	32. The Johnlock Morning After

**I wrote a 442B! I always feel so accomplished when I manage to write something like that. I hope you lovely people like it. We will be getting back to the Mystrade drama in the next chapter, promise.**

* * *

When John woke up, he groaned in agony. His entire body _ached_- his head was pounding and felt as if it were stuffed full of steel wool, his back was stiff and hurt as if he'd been pummeled with a sack of bricks, his mouth was dry and disgusting, and his arse was throbbing slightly which could lead him to only one conclusion as to what had happened last night.

John, groaning again, managed to roll onto his side, keeping his head stationary on the pillow. He winced and blinked as sunlight speared through his eyes like spikes, increasing the pounding in his head and he whimpered. He was never drinking again. _Ever_. He didn't care what Sherlock did- he, John Watson, was now practicing stone-cold sobriety.

As his vision slowly came into focus, through much blinking and suppressing of whines, Sherlock materialized beside him. He was completely naked and had shunned a sheet in favor of impressively displaying himself, as if the sight of his pale, nude body could somehow cure John's hangover.

"You bastard." John husked, closing his eyes as the pounding in his temples throbbed in time to his words.

"You weren't complaining last night, John. Quite the opposite."

"Was drunk. Doesn't count." John muttered into his pillow, realizing he and Sherlock should've talked about boundaries at some point but realizing he wasn't as upset as he probably should be that Sherlock had had sex with him. John was honestly more upset that he couldn't remember what had obviously been a wonderfully vigorous and thorough shag, if both his front and backside were any indication.

Sighing, he tried to make his brain work and figure out if he'd done anything embarrassing last night but he got nothing.

He took a deep breath and hissed it out in pain. _God, his head hurt_. "Pills and water?"

Sherlock slithered off the bed and was gone for only a minute before he returned, handing John the proffered items and easing himself back onto the bed, careful not to jostle John and his acidic head.

"Happened?" Speaking in complete sentences was painful.

"After my brother dropped you off and we pried you away from Greg- I had no idea you were so fond of the DI- you started shouting about my "bloody immaturity" and woke Mrs. Hudson. I started helping you up the stairs before you could say much else. We got as far as the landing when you overbalanced- I tried to stop you- and fell down the stairs-"

"Then fell on your cock, apparently." John sniped. He felt distinctly sticky.

"Hardly, John. You pushed me to the bed and rode me bareback."

* * *

**My shame? I think it's around here somewhere. I haven't seen it in a while but I know it's here.**


	33. Not Broken

Greg watched as Sherlock did the barest of double-takes when he caught sight of him as he and John walked up to the crime scene from their cab. His keen eyes flicked over Greg and a wrinkle appeared between his eyebrows as he frowned, noting the distinct lack of Mycroft's _signs_ all over Greg's body which, all added up, led him to one startlingly conclusion. Sherlock then stepped closer to John, as if breaking-up were an epidemic and he needed to protect his boyfriend from catching it all costs. Sherlock looked so alarmed Greg was surprised he even agreed to stay and look at the body.

Hours later, finishing up paperwork at his desk, his back aching and feeling every bit his age, Greg absently thought back over the three days since he'd seen Mycroft. Not since that morning he'd walked out of his flat, anger at Mycroft making the blood pound in his ears, had he even heard from his…well, he supposed his _ex_-boyfriend now. When he'd returned from work that night, Mycroft was already gone and he hadn't heard from him since- no call, no text, no black car, nothing. Which was just as well, Greg supposed, if their relationship was well and truly over. Mycroft _had_ told him to leave if he couldn't handle it.

The thought depressed Greg more than he liked, so he shoved it to the side and concentrated on finishing his work so he could go home.

It was as he was about to leave Scotland Yard that he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket and pulled it out, his heart jumping when he saw the text from Mycroft.

_Join me for dinner? MH_

Greg's fingers hovered over the screen as he thought. Did he want to see Mycroft? Yeah, as sick as it probably was, he did. He missed the pompous bastard and he wasn't mad at him anymore. He still thought they needed to talk about things, but maybe that was why Mycroft was inviting him to dinner? To apologize? Maybe Mycroft had given him some space to cool down and now they could talk about things.

_Yeah. GL_

He'd only just sent the message when a black car pulled up to the curb.

* * *

Mycroft sat across from Greg at the fabulously expensive restaurant the black car had dropped him at, calmly sipping wine and staring placidly over at him. He'd surprised Greg by kissing him when Greg had arrived, but Greg had melted into the embrace, responding a bit hesitantly but happily. He'd really missed Mycroft.

So far, things had been going well. It seemed they'd both just needed time to cool off and Greg had waited until after the first course before starting the discussion. It'd been easy- Mycroft never talked about his day, never talked about anything really, and Greg realized how much of their conversation usually revolved around him or inane and unimportant topics. It just pushed him even more to talk to Mycroft about this

"Look…about the other morning…" Greg began, piecing his words together, trying to get it right this time and not make either of them angry.

"There's no need to apologize. You were hung over and certainly not feeling the best in the world. With the amount of alcohol you and John drank the previous evening-"

"Hang on." Greg held up a hand, frowning. "What would _I_ apologize for?"

Mycroft's smile slipped only fractionally before it was back but his eyes had suddenly lost their warmth, becoming like two chips of ice as he gazed at Greg. "Words were exchanged, and you were not in the best of moods. It's all fine now though-"

"No, it's…it's _not_. I still want to talk about your hiding everything from me. It's-"

Mycroft sighed tiredly and sank back in his chair. "I thought we'd already resolved the matter, Gregory." His voice was bored and annoyed, as if Greg had just asked for the most impossible thing in the history of mankind.

"Resolved what? You wouldn't even talk to me about it-"

"Because there is nothing to discuss." Mycroft said simply and Greg felt a beat of anger that he tried to quash. Getting angry wouldn't solve anything. He knew from vast experience with his ex-wife. Getting angry just led to shouting, which led to slamming doors, and tears and just…no. No getting angry.

"So what I'm feeling doesn't count? Is that what you're saying?" Greg asked in an attempted calm, rational voice, but he could feel his control slipping as Mycroft remained impassive.

"There is no need to be dramatic, Gregory." Mycroft chastised, brushing aside how Greg was feeling, what he was saying, and turning his eyes away from his boyfriend to survey the restaurant around them as if waiting for Greg to compose himself and change the subject. Mycroft was unmoved, unwilling to discuss anything with Greg and suddenly, Greg just felt tired.

He sighed and slumped back in his seat. "You think so?"

"Do I think what?"

"That there's still nothing to discuss?"

"Yes, of course."

"Fine. I agree. There's nothing to discuss." Greg caught a fleeting look of Mycroft's smug face as he let him win their argument before Greg pushed his chair away from the table and stood up.

"Where are you going?" Mycroft looked surprised and Greg didn't even feel like gloating over it.

"I'm leaving. You don't think there's anything to discuss and you won't talk to me about things so…" Greg gestured vaguely, wishing he had the words to say and explain this better, more elegantly, but he was just a simple guy. "I can't be in a relationship where you keep hiding things from me and making me guess about where you were today or…or what your past is like, or if the person you're talking to you if a friend or an enemy, or…I did enough of that. I've done that before and that's not what I wanted from this." Greg gestured between himself and Mycroft, then let his hand fall to the side, knowing he wasn't explaining himself as well as he'd like but it was all he could muster.

When his wife had left, he'd wanted to be able to tell her exactly how he felt, how deeply she'd hurt him, but somehow, he'd really just felt relief. All those years of pain she'd put him through couldn't be erased, but at least then he'd known that he wouldn't have to endure even _more_ pain. Now, standing in front of Mycroft and watching the genius stare blankly back at him, apparently not caring, Greg just knew he'd fucked himself. He'd be feeling the hurt from this for a long time to come…but he wasn't going to just blindly go along with Mycroft. That wasn't a relationship.

"You must do what you feel to be best, Gregory." Was Mycroft's only answer.

Greg stared at him for another few seconds, wanting to say more but not knowing how to say it, not even really thinking Mycroft would _listen _if he did, then nodded, and left the restaurant.

* * *

**Mycroft is quite a pompous ass, isn't he? I promise there will be another chapter in the next few days with some nice, comforting Mystrade. :) Thanks for reading**.


	34. Just Bend

Mycroft Holmes learned from a very early age that the only way to survive in this world was to keep secrets.

By the age of 6, Mycroft had mapped out a convoluted web in his mind of which secrets belonged to whom, who knew about them, who wasn't allowed to know, and lies he could tell in order to prevent the person who shouldn't find out from…well, finding out. He was forever adding information to his mental web, as Father acquired a new mistress, Mother acquired a new gardener, or new stylist, or was "prescribed" a new drug.

Father kept secrets from Mother.

Mother kept secrets from Father.

Both parents tried to keep secrets from their children but Mycroft and Sherlock weren't like other children, and they saw far more than they should. They knew, though, they had to keep their silence about the things they saw and learned and deduced.

It was a precarious balance, the keeping of all these secrets, but as long as everyone kept their secrets, well, _secret_, the world was calm and ordered and everyone could pretend as if nothing was wrong and that there weren't skeletons in the closets that threatened their "perfect family" persona.

Once, Sherlock told Mycroft that the silence in the house seemed so oppressive, filled with _so many_ words unspoken, that he wanted to scream. To Mycroft, it was just the way life was, there was nothing wrong with it, and as he got older, the secrets he kept multiplied.

Mycroft hid that he was lonely.

He perpetuated the idea that his family was the best and most perfect family to ever exist, even as he hid the bruises and marks his father had left on his skin.

Mycroft hid that he was gay.

He hid that he hated himself and had once seriously contemplated suicide.

He hid his anger and fear when his father died and he was suddenly head of a fractured family.

He hid his disgust with his mother, his fear for his brother, the sleepless nights when he started his new job striving to be good enough, the long days and hard nights of planning and strategizing but never allowing anyone to see, making them think he did it effortlessly. He built around him an inhuman persona because Mycroft had learned, time and again from observation, that when you opened yourself up, you invited people to hurt you and use that information against you.

Mycroft's _life_ was keeping secrets.

And Greg wanted him to just spill his guts, tell him everything, and undo the work of decades.

No. It wasn't possible.

* * *

The first week without Greg wasn't so hard. There were the elections in an obscure former Russian republic to keep him occupied in orchestrating and Mycroft, by pure chance, discovered one of the new interns was actually on a terrorist watch list from the way he tied his shoelaces. He then instituted a shake-up in his inner circle for that mistake and reorganized his Cabinet. The first person who whispered behind his back that he was being "a right bloody bastard" and "acting stroppy" was promptly fired.

The second week, however, was worse. There wasn't anything on at the moment, and Mycroft's heart twisted when he realized that, were he and Greg still together, he would've cleared Greg's schedule (without the DI being aware, of course) and the two of them would have spent a few precious days together, cooking, watching movies, laughing, and having sex. That wasn't going to happen, now though.

Which was fine. It was as they both wanted. They simply hadn't been compatible when it came right down to it. Greg had made unreasonable demands and Mycroft was relieved it was over. He threw himself even more heavily into his work, realizing he'd let himself slip during the months he and Greg had been dating.

The third week passed in a blur of pain and numbness. Mycroft was slowly realizing that all the work in the world couldn't stop him thinking of Greg and it was during this time that Mycroft added another secret to his long, never ending list. In the dead of night, when most others had vacated the building, he crept into the CCTV room and watched Greg, who looked tired and wan by the light of the streetlamps, yell at Sherlock whose face was half-covered in blood and was being tended to by a very angry John Watson.

On any other night, he'd already be in his car, on the way to the scene to pick Greg up and listen to him rant about his day as they made their way back to his flat. Mycroft would experience that particular feeling of contentment only being with Greg could inspire and then, when Greg would finally finish talking and turn those tired eyes to him and smile, the lines crinkling round the corners and making him still look ten years younger, Mycroft would _have_ to lean over and kiss him.

Only now, that wouldn't happen.

He couldn't give Greg what he wanted.

He couldn't.

* * *

Greg jerked out of his sleep, gasping, heart pounding as adrenaline kicked through his veins, igniting his fight or flight reaction. He shook his head, wondering what- then jumped and swore as another series of poundings echoed through his flat. Someone was hammering their fist over and over against his front door and Greg threw back his covers, checking the time- 1:30 am- and grabbing his gun from the bedside table.

He crept down the hall in his bare feet and peered through the peep hole, holding his breath- then gasped and fumbled with the latch, throwing open the door to reveal Mycroft Holmes, impeccably dressed as always, and looking absolutely terrified.

"_Mycroft_- what-"

"I have arachnophobia." Mycroft said in a rush, voice shaking and eyes wide.

Greg blinked, trying to clear the last traces of sleep from his eyes, certain he had heard Mycroft wrong.

"What-"

"I have an unconquerable fear of spiders. Sherlock's the only one who knew about it and when we were boys he kept a pet spider to torment me with. He'd leave it in my bed or wait until I was asleep and make it crawl on my face. When it died- no, actually _I_ killed it, _I_ fed it poison but don't tell him he thought it died of natural causes- he was too young to perform an accurate autopsy- he put it in my soup at dinner without my being aware." Mycroft had said all this in one breath and took a shuddering gasp of air before launching back into his monologue. "I never liked learning maths when I was at school, I learned to play the piano when I was a child but I was never musical and hated every minute of it. I don't like tea but I drink it because it's the polite thing to do as it's English and traditional and-"

"Mycroft…Mycroft, _slow down_." Greg held out a hand, noticing the way Mycroft's entire frame was shaking slightly and the man looked absolutely frightened out of his mind.

"I hate wearing casual clothes because I think I look fleshy." Mycroft whispered in reply and Greg shook his head. What the hell?

"Why are you telling me all this?" He tried checking Mycroft's pupils for dilation, wondering if the man were high, a possible family predilection.

"I'm not high. I've never done recreational drugs and have never been drunk in my entire life." Mycroft swallowed and took Greg's hand. "You didn't want me to keep secrets. So I'm telling you."

Greg felt the bottom drop out of his stomach and he could only stare at Mycroft in stunned disbelief. He'd thought, after the first week went by and he'd heard nothing from him, that their relationship was well and truly over. Seemed to have been that way and the hurt had been staggering, but now, randomly, Mycroft just turned up at his door spouting off his life's story. And Greg was supposed to do…what?

"Fuck," Greg whispered and pulled Mycroft to him, slotting his lips against the other man's and listening as Mycroft uncharacteristically whimpered and clung to him. They stumbled backward into Greg's flat and Mycroft kept talking, somehow working around Greg's lips and managing to breathe at the same time.

Well, the man _was_ a genius.

Mycroft, so wrapped up in exultation at the feeling of kissing Greg, pressing against him after three weeks- and assuming it would be the rest of his life- of separation, rambling out what felt like his life story, suddenly realized that Greg was crying. Silent tears were streaming down his face even as he moaned against Mycroft's lips and encouraged him to keep speaking.

"What's wrong?" Mycroft asked, pulling away and smoothing his hands over Greg's face, tracing the trails of moisture that had left evidence behind of how much all this meant to his lover.

Greg was speechless. He knew how much this was costing Mycroft, how much telling him all this was scaring the other man, leaving him petrified, and how much trust Mycroft was placing in him. He _loved_ him for it. He didn't think now was the time to say it, though, not when they were only just on again and both so vulnerable and emotions were running so high. He would tell him, though. And soon.

"Just tell me about your day." Greg choked out, trying and failing to suppress a fresh wave of tears, relief and love and happiness warring within him for top billing.

Mycroft began talking.

* * *

**I hope this was to everyone's satisfaction. I NEVER do this, but...if you feel so inclined to comment, let me know if you would like to read a nice little chapter of make-up Mystrade lovings. If no one wants to read it, the next update will be my sickly sweet Johnlock sequence, but if enough of you want to see it, the next update will be another Mystrade with plenty of soul searching as they make love. Let me know and thanks for following me and for all the love! :D**


	35. You Have No Idea

For most of his life, Mycroft had been lonely. Anyone looking in from the outside would think he had everything he could want and would be the last person to ever suffer from loneliness. He had a mother and father, a brother, so-called friends and numerous acquaintances, assistants, and co-workers. Lots of people thought they knew him, or knew parts of him, but no one really _saw him_. They only saw what Mycroft wanted them to see, a façade, a character, an automaton, someone who looked like him and acted like him, but wasn't actually _him_.

Numerous times over his life, Mycroft had found himself in the middle of a crowded room, knowing everyone there…and feeling like the loneliest person on the face of the earth.

He had even been in a relationship with Greg for the last few months, allowed the man intimate access to his body and time, and he had still been lonely. Not as much, but still.

It was only now, stripped bare, naked in more ways than one, and laid out beneath Greg as that man kissed him as if he were trying to devour Mycroft from the mouth down, drink the words from his lips before he even spoke them, that Mycroft finally felt _seen_.

It was so remarkable it was terrifying.

Mycroft couldn't help but wonder if Greg were going to be disgusted with him. Some of what he was saying exposed ugly or humiliating parts of himself he'd never wanted anyone to know, most especially someone he wanted to be in a relationship with. People didn't want to know these things about their partners, they wanted perfection, someone to idolize. Not…_him_. The _real_ him.

But Greg was smiling as he listened, praising him, urging him to continue, telling him he was amazing, incredible, and Mycroft was half-drunk on the praises that fell so easily from Greg's lips. It was the only reason he could think of for telling Greg that he had lusted for him from the moment they met, had watched him on CCTV more than once for nothing case related, and that was what he had been doing tonight.

"You bloody stalker." Greg growled against Mycroft's hips, making the younger man arch beneath him. "How many times have you watched me?"

"Lots." Mycroft gasped as Greg peeled his trousers and pants away from his body, leaving him fully exposed. He watched in fascination at the way Greg's eyes darkened as he looked down at him and couldn't stop the uncharacteristic blush from rising to his cheeks. Greg had already kissed Mycroft's self-admitted fleshy body with reverence and now he began kissing and licking every new exposed inch of skin. It was something he'd done before but never when there was so much meaning attached, never when Mycroft was still babbling, spilling all his secrets in a graceless heap at Greg's feet.

"How many's lots?"

"More than….more than- _ah, Greg_!" Mycroft broke off his confession to groan but Greg pulled away from his erection with an obscene sound and stared mischievously up at him.

"How many's lots?"

"More than fifty less than eighty."

"Mycroft-"

"Sixty eight."

"Really?" Greg asked before wickedly dipping his head back down, loving the way Mycroft had trouble talking, but still listening to every word he said. How could he not? He would _never_ get tired of listening to this man.

"Yes, really. I…I couldn't w-wait to see you so I'd…sneak in…_hnngh_…into the CCTV room and watch you….watch you work- at your desk, or sometimes out on the street."

"Why?" Greg's voice was hushed, hesitant, and Mycroft shook his head, not wanting to answer that question, not really knowing how.

"I wanted to."

And Greg was content with that, for the moment.

* * *

When Mycroft was spread beneath him, lips swollen from kisses, chest heaving, eyes heavy lidded in arousal, his legs wrapped about Greg's waist, Greg rested his weight on his elbows and thrust slowly, not wanting to rush this. _This_ wasn't about sex, exactly, even though that was what they were technically having. It wasn't quick, or hurried, and there was no frenzied grind to reach orgasm. It was just as if they couldn't bear another second of being apart and had to be intimately joined, moving together, pressed as tightly as they could against each other, feeling their hearts racing, hearing each other breathe and moan and curse.

It was raw, slightly painful, a bit playful, but ever so much more pleasurable because all their emotions were there, right on the surface, and only needed a touch, a look, a thought to be brought to the forefront. It was the most incredibly intimate thing Greg had ever been a part of, their emotions working in a loop from Mycroft, to himself, then back to Mycroft.

Mycroft, still managing to speak in between gasps and moans, could only describe how Greg was loving him as, well, _worship_.

"You're so beautiful," Greg whispered in awe, pausing all movements and resting his forehead against Mycroft's. Mycroft shuddered, his words drying up and he stopped mid-sentence so he could listen to Greg. "_You_, Mycroft, are so fucking beautiful. Fuck. I want every piece of you, inside and out. I want you."

Mycroft knew he wasn't just talking about sex- Greg was talking about _everything_. He wanted all the stories and explanations and little insignificant facts about Mycroft that no one else cared to know and would dismiss as useless. He wanted to memorize, keep, and cherish them. It was something no one had ever wanted from Mycroft unless they had a reason, a way to use it against him by gaining leverage.

What was Greg's reason?

"Greg-"

"You have no idea," Greg breathed, kissing Mycroft again just to shut the younger man up. He knew what he'd been about to say and now wasn't the time, not yet. "For all that intelligence, you have no idea."

Mycroft frowned, not liking being told he didn't know something, but Greg kissed away his bemusement, licked his way into his mouth and sped up his thrusts.

It was probably because Mycroft was already mentally and emotionally wrecked, but when Greg finally reached between them and stroked Mycroft, the all-powerful, always self-assured, cool and suave young man forgot his own name. He arched beneath his boyfriend and came, reduced to moaning and stuttering without reserve.

Slowly, Mycroft became aware of Greg kissing him, his nose, eyelids, cheeks, neck, lips- dotting little kisses all over his face before drawing back and grinning down at him, a happy, relieved look in his eyes.

"You have _no idea_, Myc."

* * *

"Greg." Mycroft's voice was slurred in exhaustion and Greg hummed to let him know he was listening, even as his eyes fluttered closed, so ready to sleep. He knew Mycroft was similarly gone but if Mycroft wanted to keep talking Greg wasn't going to stop him. Fuck no. He'd encourage that shit if he had to go for _days_ without sleeping.

"I thought I should tell you…I changed your schedule at work and arranged it so you'll have the next three days off."

Greg blinked himself awake and rolled over to peer at Mycroft. "I'll be pissed at you for arranging my life later." Greg snaked an arm around Mycroft and pulled him closer. "Thanks for telling me."

"You're most welcome."

….

"Gregory?"

"Mmhmm?"

"I prefer to be the big spoon in our sleeping arrangements."

…..

Greg chuckled sleepily and raised up to peck Mycroft on the cheek before rolling over and letting his boyfriend settle against his back and snake an arm around his middle, pulling him closer.

"Thanks for telling me, Myc."

"You're…very…welcome?"

"Yeah. I am."

* * *

**Thanks to everyone who let me know they wanted to see some Mystrade make-up loving in this chapter. I hope this lived up to everyone's expectations. :) Let me know what you thought. **

**Next week- Wednesday to be exact- will be the start of my Johnlock sequence.**


	36. Not Exactly Fort Knox

When John, newly returned from Afghanistan, bought his cheap laptop, it came with the option of having it password protected.

The bored, teenaged sales associate who'd installed everything on it there in the store had waited impatiently for John to make up his mind. Did he want the password set-up along with all the other programs and thingamajigs? No extra charge and he'd show John how to change the password himself.

John had thought it'd sounded complicated, unnecessary, and a real pain in the arse. What was the point in having a password? He wouldn't have anyone around who'd be using his laptop, the laptop would never leave the flat, and he would obviously be the only user. A password would just get in the way when he wanted to use his own computer.

So, for the first few weeks of its service, the laptop wasn't protected…like a babe in the woods.

Then John moved into a flat at 221B Baker Street.

He'd never forget the panic that exploded through his body the moment he walked in the door at 221B after a discouraging day of job hunting to find Sherlock, his brand new and highly eccentric flatmate, using his laptop. Without proper authorization and without John's express permission.

In hindsight, John realized he should've expected this.

It had been obvious, during that first week, that Sherlock had a serious problem with boundaries. He'd already organized John's ties by their dominant color (unasked), commandeered John's kettle for his own disgusting purposes, taken up most of the flat with his own things, and generally been inconsiderate and rude. John hadn't thought to make up a password for his laptop, though. He'd assumed (incorrectly) that Sherlock would _know_ his _personal_ laptop, as opposed to John's other things, was off-limits. Sherlock even had his _own_ laptop- why then would he use John's instead? John had thought he wouldn't.

Innocence is such a beautiful, fragile thing.

John stood in the doorway to the sitting room as Sherlock continued to peck away on _his_ bloody laptop, unconcerned and bold as brass, and the only thought running through his head was if Sherlock had found his porn. He hadn't erased his history after his last…session and there was _lots_ of it, some of rather sketchy subjects that wouldn't reflect very well on John.

The second thought was if Sherlock had read John's more feeble attempts at writing. Sherlock had already openly mocked John's blog, but there weren't just blog posts on his laptop. There was the extremely rough draft of a James Bond-esque novel John had tried his hand at writing, the embarrassingly sappy romance story he'd actually completed but sworn to show no one (even if he were slightly proud of it). There were a few poems, the start of his account of everything that happened in Afghanistan which Ella had said would help- _private_ _things_.

Things John didn't want Sherlock seeing.

Ever.

John snatched his laptop away, snapping something rather rude, and they rowed. Sherlock remained unrepentant, and John, knowing Sherlock would only steal his laptop again, had enabled a password.

But a few days later, John walked into the flat to find Sherlock _again_ on his laptop.

"It's password protected!"

"In a sense. Took me less than a minute to guess yours. Not exactly Fort Knox."

Thus began the series of passwords John would make up in futile attempts to protect his laptop from Sherlock Holmes.

They solved cases, blogged about it, and at least of them forgot their pants. They laughed, raged, saved each other, and moved from friends to lovers. They dated, made love, argued, made up- and through all that, the wonderful, never boring, day to day living, John kept changing his password when Sherlock guessed it.

And Sherlock _always_ guessed it. Even if it sometimes took him a few hours- and on one memorable occasion an entire _day_- he always figured it out.

Until one day…he didn't.

* * *

**This is the beginning of my 3-part Johnlock sequence. Prepare for some sickly sweet love as only John and Sherlock can manage. I got diabetes writing this. Lol. Thanks for the support, lovelies!** **:)**


	37. Fort Knox, Part 2

**Here's the second part of my 3-part Johnlock sequence! I will update this weekend with the final installment- though not the final chapter for this story! :)**

* * *

"Not guessed it yet?" John asked as he brought his supper into the sitting room and propped his feet up, switching on the telly. Sherlock grabbed the remote and agitatedly switched it back off, unable to concentrate with such _noise_.

"I never _guess_, John." Sherlock murmured, eyes trained on the log-in screen of John's laptop, hands pressed together beneath his chin, eyes bright and alert as he bent the entire focus of his immense intelligence to solving this new problem.

John smiled at his boyfriend and tucked into his dinner, knowing better than to ask Sherlock if he wanted any. He'd been working on cracking the password when John left for work nine hours ago, and obviously hadn't had any luck in the interim. Yes, it really would be easier for Sherlock to stand, cross the room, and get his own laptop but deducing John's feeble passwords served as a mental distraction when there were no cases and all other attempts at amusing himself failed.

That was what Sherlock _said_, but John knew Sherlock secretly loved this little game they played. It was unique, something only they did and it had grown to mean a lot to both of them. Which was why John had got the brilliant idea of changing his password to _this_.

John always had a lot of fun changing his passwords, trying to invent new ones when Sherlock guessed them. He'd expanded his vocabulary quite well by looking up complicated words in the dictionary, turning to online thesauruses and Google searches when all else failed. He'd used brief snatches of poetry, parts of his grocery list, every bone, muscle, and organ in the human body, his birthday, Sherlock's birthday, Army code words (which Sherlock should _not_ have known but of course somehow did), and pop culture catch phrases.

Of course, when he and Sherlock began dating and making love, John had particular fun making up _those_ passwords. One incident stood out special among the rest: Sherlock had deduced the new password and then blushed a vivid red, actually unable to meet John's eyes for a few minutes.

Now, as he stared at the screen in annoyance, Sherlock huffed and John couldn't help giggling a bit nervously. He'd chosen a password he didn't think Sherlock would guess…but one he hoped he would- which was something he'd never done before. He usually chose passwords with the aim of _finally_ stumping Sherlock…but if he didn't guess this one John was going to be rather put out.

It had been brash, probably an unwise decision, because the more John watched Sherlock trying to solve it, the more his mind began thinking of all the reasons this had been a stupid idea. He should've changed to it something else- _anything_ else.

Sherlock suddenly swiveled to face him, catching John like a deer in the headlights, and his eyes flicked slowly over John's face, his body language, and the uncomfortable expression on John's face. John let his boyfriend deduce him, feeling not unlike a bug under a microscope, knowing it was possible for Sherlock to deduce an answer from him- and his worry that this had been a horrible idea increased.

He swallowed nervously, anxiously wetting his lips, and Sherlock smirked arrogantly.

"It's to do with sentiment." Sherlock declared, looking unbearably smug as he turned back to John's laptop.

"I love you too, John." He said a bit scornfully, tapping in "ILoveYou" and hitting enter with a flourish. "_Really_, I would have expected better-"

_Password Denied_

John snorted at Sherlock's comically surprised face as he stared at the computer screen. John then watched as Sherlock, frowning, typed in another variation, then another, and another, growing increasingly frustrated when he was denied each time.

He didn't ask John what the password was, though.

That would be cheating, not to mention that this had suddenly become a delicious challenge- one Sherlock very much intended to win.

"I'm sure you'll figure it out, Sherlock." John said, rising and taking his plate back to the kitchen. "Eventually."


	38. Fort Knox, Part 3

One week later, Sherlock still hadn't figured out John's new password.

He'd stopped eating two days ago. His last shower had been yesterday. He had grown incredibly snappish, responding sarcastically to anything anyone said to him- John included- and had reduced Lestrade to confused stammers when all the DI had done was ring him to ask if he wanted a case.

"I'm _busy_. I don't have time for your pathetic case when it's obvious to anyone with half a brain that the brother-in-law did it because of the parakeet. Now leave me alone!"

Sherlock kept running his fingers through his curls, making it look as though he'd stuck his finger in an electric socket, reinforcing the belief John held that Sherlock looked like a very dashing mad scientist. He couldn't keep the slight smile from his face when Sherlock did this, making Sherlock growl in annoyance and tug at his hair in frustration.

Sherlock paced, played his violin, tossed random objects from hand to hand, all the while throwing John's laptop murderous glances.

"It's to do with _sentiment_." Sherlock said for what felt like the hundredth time, grimacing as if he hated the word- and after a week of trying to figure out the password, John supposed he probably did. "Sentiment. _Sentiment_."

He banged the apple John had absently handed him earlier onto the desk and bellowed his agitation.

"I have already tried all the usual expressions of affection, permutations of our names- even that disgusting _Johnlock_- but nothing has worked. I _know_ it's to do with sentiment. You have that uneasy look in your eye when you know you're being silly and maudlin and expecting me to think you're an idiot. You are also increasingly agitated and nervous over your password the longer it takes me to deduce it. Which means you're second guessing yourself, even though originally you were keen on the idea. It's unlike you to be embarrassed over expressing your emotions unless you think…I…won't…be…"

John looked up from his book and saw the flash of realization cross Sherlock's face as his entire body froze in understanding. He quickly pretend to be absorbed in his book and saw, from the corner of his eye, Sherlock's head whip around to stare at him.

Sherlock remained frozen in place, staring at John, as if struck dumb by the thought that had crossed his mind, his lips forming a surprised little "o" as he processed what he'd just thought of. John, his stomach swooping unpleasantly, eyes fixed determinedly on his book even though he didn't see a word of it, felt a hot flush stealing up his neck into his cheeks and waited to see what Sherlock would do.

He could _feel_ Sherlock's eyes boring into him and resisted the urge to fidget. He kept pretending to read but it was a feeble attempt- they both knew he wasn't but the longer Sherlock just…_stood there_ and _stared_ at him…the more anxious John got.

Oh, god, he'd been so fucking _stupid_! Why had he ever thought this would be a good idea? Sherlock was going to be disappointed. This was probably the lamest thing he'd ever done. John, breathing shakily, hoped Sherlock wouldn't laugh. He didn't think he could take it if Sherlock laughed.

John watched surreptitiously as Sherlock slowly crossed the room and stared down at the log-in screen that had taunted him for the past week.

Sherlock paused, his fingers hovering hesitantly over the keys as the cursor blinked innocently up at him. It was the quiet hush before a storm, the breath taken before a leap, the stillness before a bomb went off. John almost expected his ears to pop from the change of pressure in the room- it was suddenly heavy, the tension thick, impossible to breathe, move, even think.

Sherlock slowly pecked out the words John had changed his password to a week ago

_Tap-tap-tap-tap…tap-tap-tap…tap-tap-tap-tap-tap…ta p-tap…tap_

John waited for the laugh, the derisive, dismissive snort, the scathing comment.

_Enter_

Sherlock went entirely still, his eyes trained unblinkingly on John's laptop screen which now displayed his desktop. He swallowed, eyes flicking rapidly from side to side.

John braced himself for the worst.

Sherlock, though, remained silent. He then squared his shoulders and began typing quickly, doing something John couldn't see from his armchair.

Sherlock worked for only a minute before he logged out and closed the lid.

"Well," he said suddenly, standing and buttoning his jacket, acting completely casual and calm, seemingly unaware of the pall that lay over the flat. "I'm going out. Walking to Bart's."

"Right." John responded, his heart sinking as he heard Sherlock tug his coat on and then run down the stairs. The slamming of the front door was quiet in the stillness of the flat.

John put down his book and stared over at the innocent looking laptop, his heart in his throat.

It was long minutes before he finally stood and walked over to his laptop. He drummed his fingers on the top before finally opening it and sighing at the password screen.

Oh, god.

_Tap-tap-tap-tap…tap-tap-tap…tap-tap-tap-tap-tap…ta p-tap…tap_

WillYouMarryMe?

_Password Denied_

John's mouth went dry and his heart skipped a beat.

_Sherlock had changed the password. _

For the first time, in the entire history they had been playing this game, Sherlock had changed the password.

It was only obvious he would have changed the password to his answer.

And his answer was…?

John tapped it out before he could convince himself of anything else.

_Tap-tap-tap_

_Yes_

_Enter_

John's desktop burst into life on the screen and his knees went entirely weak and shaky. He groped behind him for a chair and sat down heavily, as a dopey grin spreading across his face.

Sherlock had said yes. Sherlock…had said _yes_.

"Sherlock-" John broke off, realizing Sherlock had just left- he had _left_!- and he was out of his chair, grabbing his jacket and half-running, half-tripping and falling down the stairs. He stumbled out the door and began running in the direction of St. Bart's, praying Sherlock hadn't taken a cab, thinking it'd probably be best to text him but then remembering he'd left his phone in the flat.

John had just began realizing how much of an idiotic, love-sick fool he was making of himself and thinking he should probably just get a cab and cut the rom-com bullshit when he saw Sherlock only a few yards ahead of him, hands shoved in the pockets of his coat and walking very, very slowly.

"_Sherlock_!" John cried, aware that half the street looked at him but not caring as the man in question turned around, not looking at all surprised to see John running towards him full tilt. John watched a slight smile touch the corners of his mouth, his eyes twinkling in mirth as John pounded to a stop in front of him.

"Really? _Really_? Did you mean it?"

"Mean what?" Sherlock asked, and if it hadn't been for the slight vibration beneath his voice that told John he was trying hard not to laugh, John would've punched him.

"You said yes?"

"Yes."

"_Yes_?"

"_Yes, John_."

"Thank fuck," John gasped, grabbing Sherlock's coat and pulling him into a very sloppy kiss that took the rest of his breath away.

But he had to pull away just as quickly. "Just…just so we're clear you did agree to marry me. Right?" It didn't seem possible. What if they were talking about two different things, or what if Sherlock had been joking, or he thought John were joking, or-

"_Yes_, John. My god, you do realize I was _trying_ to let you have a grand moment full of romantic sweeping gestures like those you like in movies and you have to ruin it with-_mmph_!"

John cut off his rambling, agitated genius fiancé off with another fierce kiss.

Fiancé. Holy fuck.

* * *

**I first want to apologize because I haven't responded to many of the reviews for the last two chapters. I always respond to any review I receive but some of you guessed what the password would be and I couldn't just _tell_ you. Just know that I read and love every single review I receive. I hope this chapter wasn't a disappointment.**


	39. Because You're An Idiot

Sherlock had never thought he would ever get engaged. The very idea was laughable.

He was an anti-social albeit high-functioning sociopath, a former junkie, married to his work, and always said the wrong thing at the wrong time and didn't care if and when he did so. His personality rubbed everyone the wrong way and most people avoided him at all costs.

He'd known he was different from everyone else and he'd resigned himself early in life to always being alone. For most of his adulthood, his prediction held true, and he was fine with that. More than fine with it, because everyone was stupid and boring and predictable and not worth wasting his time on. He didn't need anyone- he had The Work and his experiments and, if he wasn't exactly happy, he was mostly content with his life.

But then there was John Watson with his smiles and his praise and his tolerance for all things Sherlock Holmes and he'd started thinking maybe…_maybe_ he wouldn't always be alone. He'd have John's friendship. Of course, because John wasn't predictable like everyone else, he went ahead with his smiles and his laughter and his love and then proposed, stealing Sherlock's breath away for not the last time in their lives.

Sherlock stared over at John as the man slept in the darkness of their bedroom and tried to work it out.

What had he ever done to make John love him and want to spend the rest of his life with him? Make him want to tie himself to Sherlock and never let him go? He needed to work it out so he never stopped doing it. It was important because Sherlock had a deep fear he would accidentally stop doing whatever it was he was doing and would lose John, turn John's love for him into hatred, drive him away instead of lure him closer.

The idea made his heart pound in fear and the longer the minutes stretched on without Sherlock figuring out the answer to the John Watson riddle, the more panicked he became.

He must have made some unconscious move, something to communicate his distress, because John stirred and blinked up at him, smiling slightly.

"Your thinking's keeping me awake." He murmured sleepily, sliding closer to Sherlock, who wrapped himself around John and they settled together like two pieces of a puzzle, negotiating their limbs and bodies into comfortable positions as if they had been doing this for years. The idea that they _would_ be doing this for years to come made Sherlock stiffen and clutch at John tighter. It was suddenly hard to breathe.

He buried his face in John's neck and whispered one word. "Why?"

And John, his wonderful John, whispered back. "Because you're an idiot."


	40. An Easier Way

Sherlock furiously plucked books from the shelves, rifled through them, then tossed the tomes haphazardly over his shoulder. John ducked now and again, calmly watching his fiancé rip their flat to shreds and didn't have the heart to yell at him for it.

A little chaos was a small price to pay if Sherlock found what he was searching for. They had been engaged for less than two minutes before Mycroft had texted Sherlock, gloating over their impending nuptials, and broadly hinting that he'd known all along and guessed the password before Sherlock. Had even watched John change the password in the first place.

"_Where is it_?" Sherlock seethed, slamming the last book to the ground and hurling himself across the room to begin plundering through their desk.

"It's here. I know it is. How else could he have- _ah_!" He yanked his hand out of the drawer he had indiscriminately plunged it in to and cradled it to his body, wide eyes glancing at John in the hopes he hadn't seen-

"What've you done to yourself now, love?" John asked with the patience of the long-suffering.

Sherlock knelt with very poor grace and allowed John to examine the shallow cut on his palm, administered by the heavy shears Sherlock had left in their desk eight cases ago and promptly forgotten about. John winced in sympathy and, after fetching his med kit, tended to his clumsy lover with all due diligence. Sherlock spent the few minutes of down time trying to deduce where Mycroft would have hidden his camera. He had already searched the sitting room and their bedroom. It was possible his tubby brother had hidden it in his favorite place- the kitchen.

As John fished into his kit for a plaster, Sherlock's mobile beeped and he flicked at the screen.

_Please allow me to express my sympathies over your wound. Perhaps Doctor Watson would find it better to use gauze instead of a plaster to prevent infection. You aren't even close to discovering my bug, dear brother. MH_

Sherlock growled and pulled away from John, leaping up and staring around violently.

"_Sherlock_! I'm not done cleaning that."

"Not now, John- it's Mycroft he-"

"Sherlock. Get your arse back over here and let me finish taking care of that cut. Now."

Pupils dilating, Sherlock sank back to his knees in front of Captain Watson and meekly offered him his hand. He swallowed when John touched him and he saw John's lips twist in amusement at his reaction.

"There's an easier way to suss out your brother's bugs."

Wicked blue eyes met bewildered green, before Sherlock realized what John was insinuating.

Sherlock's smile spread slowly over his face, an evil, calculating smile that made John' blood run hot in anticipation.

"Yes, John. There _is_ an easier way."


	41. Debauched and Depraved

**Tomorrow's my birthday so I wrote porn. :D It makes sense to me. No, seriously, this is straight up nasty-Johnlock-sexytime. If that's not your thing, you can wait until Monday when I'll post the Mycroft-reaction chapter. :) I'll totally understand if you skip the naughtiness. I tried to find my shame but *shrugs***

* * *

"Harder."

"John-"

"Damn it, Sherlock- _harder_!"

The two men fell silent and the only sounds in the otherwise hushed flat were their heavy breathing, disjointed gasps and moans, and the obscene, wet slap of flesh on flesh.

Sherlock, his face flushed, felt his curls bouncing against his sweaty forehead with every jarring thrust into his dominating love. John's body jolted away from him and every once in a while, Sherlock tightened his grip on John's raised and spread legs and hauled him back. He listened rapturously when John hissed as the sensitive skin on his shoulders scraped against the carpet, then moaned as the new angle allowed Sherlock to go deeper and wrenched pleasure from his body.

This was so unlike the other times they'd made love. This wasn't making love, Sherlock thought dimly, most of his focus on keeping up the punishing pace John was demanding of him. This was raw fucking- and it had all been John's idea.

Sherlock wished he'd thought of it first.

He heard his phone vibrate feebly across the room before going silent and managed to grin down at John, who looked up at him with fiery eyes and laughed breathlessly.

Earlier, when John had first pressed Sherlock to the floor and snogged him, grinding their hips together, Sherlock's mobile had begun ringing.

When they'd stripped and progressed to handcuffs and using kitchen implements to substitute for the riding crop, the mobile had rang repeatedly and then chirped to signal a voicemail had been left.

Thoroughly debauched and depraved activities had followed, some of which John had just straight made the fuck up, spur of the moment, and others indulged Sherlock's army/medical fetish that made even _John_ arch an eyebrow at…but nevertheless eagerly participate in with a wicked grin.

By the time Sherlock was begging John to let him fuck him (not fully understanding why it wasn't the other way round but really just wanting to _get on with it_ already), the text messages started.

Knowing he was annoying his brother, potentially scarring him for life while winning at this game they were playing, made Sherlock want to laugh- if he had enough breath to do so.

"John…" Sherlock panted, digging his fingers into John's thighs to anchor the shorter man to him and snapping his hips. "I can't…_Ugh_! John…I'm going to come, I'm going to come_, I'm going to come-"_

"_Fuck_," John hissed, arching his back and digging his heels into Sherlock's arse, pressing him deeper inside his body. His mouth opened in a soundless cry and Sherlock watched, fascinated, as John came, spurting onto himself and Sherlock, raking his nails down Sherlock's arms and that was all it took to send Sherlock into a frenzy of pounding thrusts before he came as well, relief making him shaky, slumping onto John and hearing the smaller man chuckle weakly.

"Think that did the trick?"

* * *

Less than 15 minutes later, a solemn faced man arrived at their door and removed the cameras located in one of the buttons of Sherlock's armchair, the "screws" holding their mirror to the wall, and from one of the many pens scattered across their desk.

Sherlock, reading the messages his brother had sent over the course of the last hour, happily leaned against John, his smug smirk almost hurting his face.


	42. Chagrined and Horrified

Mycroft rarely envied Sherlock for anything.

Any ability Sherlock possessed, Mycroft had and was better at. His intelligence was a handful of points higher than Sherlock's, he was more clever when it came to deductions, could glance at a crime and tell who'd done it, was able to understand people and their motivations in a way Sherlock never could, and had vast resources at his disposal to accomplish anything else he wanted.

Anything Sherlock could do, Mycroft could as well. Except one significant thing.

Sherlock could delete whatever he wanted from his Mind Palace and never be burdened with it again.

Mycroft could not.

As he opened the door to Greg's flat, Mycroft could still hear the metallic click of handcuffs as they were attached to his brother's pale wrists, the sharp slap of a wooden spoon as it made contact with bare flesh, the aroused moans, the panting breaths.

"_Bend over the table, legs spread."_

"_Yes, sir, Captain Watson."_

He groaned and slumped against the door.

If Mycroft could, he would gladly delete the previous few hours from his brain. As it was, he could not and he was striving valiantly but fruitlessly to cleanse his mind of the noises Sherlock made when John…did certain acts to his body, as well as entirely forget the eagerly submissive posture of his brother when John pushed him to the kitchen floor, gripped his hair, and-

Stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it!

Mycroft scrubbed at his eyes, trying to block the image. For a man with incredible mental acuity, he was horrifically bad at stopping the flow of his thoughts in this instance.

He hadn't watched the whole performance- because that's what it had been. An act solely designed to punish him and force him to remove the cameras. What he had seen and heard, though, had been enough to be mentally scarring.

"_Please, Doctor Watson, I seem to have acquired a considerable…swelling. Could you take a closer look and make a diagnosis?"_

Mycroft wondered what perverse deity was in charge of these things when he found Greg in the kitchen, cooking dinner and grinning, his mind unmolested with images of his brother being repeatedly edged on the kitchen table by a very domineering Doctor Watson. Mycroft was certain John hadn't been taught that in medical school.

"You're home early."

Greg grinned and turned away from stirring the bubbling red sauce- with a wooden spoon, Mycroft noted with disgusted horror- to properly greet his boyfriend. He'd been making some quick pasta and sauce for dinner, not expecting Mycroft to be home tonight, but now that he _was_…

Mycroft, seeing the lecherous glint in Greg's eyes, took a step backward and Greg's smile morphed into a concerned frown when he took in Mycroft's pallid expression and wide, haunted eyes.

"What's wrong? What's Sherlock done now?"

"_Please, John! Ah! Sorry, sorry- Doctor Watson! Please, Doctor, please let me fuck you-"_

Mycroft, shuddering, was certain he would never be able to look at John the same way again.

Nor their kitchen table, the floor of their sitting room, handcuffs….oh, god, just stop it!

"I would rather not say." Mycroft replied bluntly and Greg frowned.

"I thought you weren't going to hide things from me anymore."

"I'm not. This is different."

"Myc-"

"Believe me, Gregory, when I say you would be much happier not knowing what John and Sherlock did."

Greg crossed his arms. "Can't you tell me anything? It's obviously got you upset…"

Mycroft fidgeted, avoiding Greg's eyes, because he sort of _knew_ he had deserved the mental scarring brought about by his own cameras. He'd needled Sherlock with his texts, taunting him, practically goading him into retaliating. He just hadn't thought _that_ would be the means of retaliation. Mycroft had heard the expression more than once that prying eyes sometimes saw things they wished they hadn't. He now fully understood that expression.

"Sherlock…discovered I had placed cameras in his flat once again and he and John…were very creative in persuading me to remove them."

Greg stared at Mycroft for almost a full minute before he burst out laughing.

"Oh, god- don't tell me they-"

"Don't." Mycroft ordered, turning away from the sight of his boyfriend _laughing_ at him and his mental anguish and stalked into their bedroom. Unfortunately, Greg followed, still laughing but trying to get control of himself before he ended up sleeping on the sofa.

"Oh, come on. You shouldn't have put cameras in their flat to begin with, Myc. Can't hardly blame them for getting back at you."

"Those cameras," Mycroft snapped, "are necessary in case a situation should arise in which either John or Sherlock are abducted- my brother makes enemies every time he opens his mouth. I would be able to identify the threat and act accordingly."

"Yeah but you're invading their privacy." Greg argued. He didn't blame Sherlock and John for not wanting cameras in their flat. It was…creepy.

"I didn't put cameras in either bedroom or the bathroom."

"Not the point, Myc. It's still…no one wants cameras tracking their every move- even if it's for the right reasons."

"I will always protect the people I love."

Greg smiled at that, an affectionate, irritated smile and shook his head. "Yeah, I know you will. You take it _too far_ sometimes but…wait. Do you have cameras in _my_ flat?"

"It's entirely possible."

"Fuck."

* * *

**Thanks for all the love, guys! It means a lot :) Sorry this was so late being posted.**


	43. He Was Done

As he stomped down the darkened streets of London, John came to the long-overdue conclusion that he had had enough.

He was officially done.

Fuck going out on cases, fuck being nice, and fuck Sherlock fucking Holmes.

This was the outside of enough. It really was. He had reached the end of…of…everything. His mind, his sanity, his patience, his rope.

He was done.

_Maybe_ John could forgive Sherlock for leaving him behind last month when Sherlock had gone after the creepy murderer alone then been totally unrepentant about it, and _maybe_ he could also forget the fact that Sherlock made it a habit of lying to him and omitting important information whenever it pleased him. Sherlock also called him an idiot on an almost daily basis, routinely ignored him, and was generally unpleasant but John could make excuses for all that. _Maybe_ John could overlook all that but this- tonight- had been the final nail in the coffin, the last straw. It had sealed the deal. He was fucking _done_.

As he turned the corner onto Baker Street, John saw the lights on in their flat, signaling Sherlock had made it home before him.

Well, bully for him, John seethed. Of _course_ he would get a cab considering he wasn't covered in garbage and smelling like rot.

John charged up the stairs to their flat, his nostrils flaring with each angry breath he took, and he smacked the door open with unnecessary force.

Sherlock lounged on the sofa and when his eyes took in the sight of John, his jeans ripped, covered in refuse, with a truly violent expression on his face, he _smiled_.

John lost it.

"_What the fuck was that, Sherlock_?!" John thundered, lips thinned down to almost nothing as he furiously stared at his boyfriend. "What the bloody fucking _fuck_ was that?!"

"I believe that was me leaving you in a skip, John."

And he had. Sherlock, in a fantastic fit of pique, had left John in the smelly skip they'd been searching earlier that night, banging the lid down with unnecessary force on John's incredulous face.

"Right bloody genius you are. Always knew you could put that massive intellect to use- _why the hell_ did you-"

"_There's no reason for us to be doing this, Sherlock. You won't be able to solve this one_." Sherlock hissed John's words back at him, eyes narrowing dangerously as he propelled himself from the sofa.

"Now hang on! All I meant was-"

"Oh, yes, _please_ enlighten me as to your _true meaning_, John." Sherlock cut him off sarcastically. "That statement was so incomprehensible I and my _massive intellect _had trouble deciphering it."

"All I _meant_, you great bloody tosser, was you've been working yourself manic on this case and you're no closer to solving it _now_ than you were four days ago-"

"Which is what I most need to be reminded of on a daily basis!"

"I'm not saying you _can't_ fucking solve it, Sherlock. But once you've exhausted all your leads… I was just telling you there's no _shame_ in sometimes not solving a case every now and then. This one's been a bloody nightmare with clues-"

"_All the pieces are there_! I know it! If I could just-"Sherlock suddenly broke off his angry diatribe and lunged at John, plucking off half a banana peel from his jeans pocket and holding it to the light.

"_Oh_. _Oh_! Of course! Of course! This is brilliant." Sherlock laughed and grabbed his coat, quickly mashing his lips to his still furious fiancé's before running down the stairs. "I have to test this. I know this is how she administered the poison!"

John slumped, fists still clenched at his sides, trying to get control of himself…when Sherlock poked his head around the bend of the stairs and called up to him.

"I'd ask you to accompany me but you're rather odiferous at the moment. No self-respecting cab driver would pick us up, I'm afraid."

John growled and started down the stairs toward him but Sherlock grinned, running away and laughing as he slammed the front door, leaving behind a filthy and fuming John Watson who spent the rest of the night, after two piping hot showers, realizing that of course he wasn't done and knowing he never would be when it came to Sherlock.

But also thinking up a suitable punishment for his fiancé.


	44. The Punishment

If he'd known he would never be able to kiss John again, Sherlock would have made their last one more memorable.

He wouldn't have rushed it in an eager haste to leave. He would instead have taken his time, started out slowly, barely brushing their lips together. John, of course, would have wanted to press forward but Sherlock wouldn't have allowed that happen, would have continued with soft, whisper-light brushes, teasing, until he felt John shiver. Perhaps he would have then flicked his tongue out, tasted John's lips, listened to John's sharp inhale and watched his eyes flare in dark, promising arousal. Such a sight was always enough to make _Sherlock_ shiver because he doesn't think he will ever get bored of seeing John's honest reactions to what he does.

Then, when John was gripping Sherlock's shirt in his fists, breathing heavily, desperate for a firmer caress, then and only then would Sherlock have deepened the kiss.

Slanted his mouth against John's and tangled their tongues together.

Clutched John to him so close he could feel the other man's heartbeat pounding against his chest.

Drank in the little moans John made high in the back his throat, something he especially loved doing when John was seconds away from climax.

Snapping out of his contemplation, Sherlock shifted uncomfortably on the sofa and stared, enraptured, as John unconsciously licked his lips as he unconcernedly watched telly, and felt arousal tighten in his gut.

Sherlock clenched his jaw and resolutely looked away from the enticing display of John's wet bottom lip that was practically _begging_ to be bitten.

It had been 2 days, 10 hours, 55 minutes, and some odd seconds since the last time he had kissed John as he ran out of their flat.

Since that time, John had refused to kiss or touch him and Sherlock was starting to feel eerily similar to a junkie needing his next hit. Except, in this instance, he didn't crave drugs- he craved _John_…and he was determined not to let his fiancé know.

Because he knew John was trying to punish him…and Sherlock was determined not to let it work.

John had explained his plan when he'd ducked his head away to avoid Sherlock's kiss the morning after the genius had solved the case and was keen on a post-case shag over the sofa. Sherlock had already grabbed the lube and was trying to decide which end of the sofa he would bend John over- when John had moved away from him, his face forbidding.

Seeing Sherlock's crestfallen expression, John had been quick to explain.

"I'm still angry with you, Sherlock. I'm tired of you taking me for granted, acting like I'll always be there no matter what you do."

Sherlock had blinked at that. Why would John _not_ always be there?

John had snorted and gestured at his bemused expression. "Exactly. You need to treat me decently and you can start with an apology. I love you. But I won't kiss you- or do anything _else_-"his eyes had swept over the bottle in Sherlock's hand- "until you apologize."

John had then folded his arms and waited.

Sherlock, though, hadn't felt that he needed to apologize. If John hadn't said what he did, Sherlock wouldn't have reacted the way _he_ did and they could have avoided this whole mess. If _anyone_ were in the wrong in this situation, it was _John_, not Sherlock.

When Sherlock had tried explaining this to John, the older man's face had gone dark in anger and Sherlock had wisely decided to just shut up.

2 days, 11 hours, 4 minutes since he'd last kissed John and Sherlock decided he didn't miss John's kisses after all.

He jutted his chin out stubbornly, not noticing the way John smiled affectionately at his pouting.

He _didn't_ miss them. Not even a little bit. They had been annoyances, interfering with his work and attention and he _certainly_ wasn't missing the displays of affection John liked to shower him with throughout the day. Those had been annoying too. It was much better this way.

He was _not_ going to apologize.

* * *

_3 days, 15 hours, 39 minutes_

He still didn't miss John's kisses but…Sherlock had to concede that he missed being close to John.

The other man was laid back on the sofa, dozing, and if this were any other night, Sherlock would have been stretched against him, John's arms wrapped firmly around him.

He knew he would be rebuffed, though, since he was still being punished, so Sherlock continued playing his violin, unable to keep his eyes from drifting back to John.

John snuffled in his sleep and Sherlock found himself smiling before he checked himself and turned away.

He wasn't going to apologize- because he really had done nothing wrong- but…perhaps it had been a _bit_ rude of him to bang the lid down on John. He could have just as easily left John in the skip and not closed the lid.

Maybe.

* * *

_4 days, 5 hours, 54 minutes_

"Brilliant."

Sherlock paused in his deductions and couldn't stop the small smile from briefly spreading across his face at John's praise. Greg, used to these little flirtations at his crime scenes, chose to ignore the flare of heat between the two and brought the conversation back round to the victim who was still laying, brutally murdered, at their feet.

Later, when Sherlock, emboldened, tried to kiss John in the cab, John ducked away and Sherlock, his stomach dropping unpleasantly, turned away, gritting his teeth in annoyance, and didn't speak the rest of the day.

That night, while Sherlock listened to John snore peacefully beside him, he wondered if perhaps he shouldn't have left John in the skip in the first place. Banging the lid down had definitely been going too far, but maybe he should have helped John- who was really too short to get out of a skip on his own- out before leaving him. He hadn't done wrong in _leaving_ him, just _where_ he had left him had been the problem, Sherlock decided.

He still didn't think he should apologize. John shouldn't have told him he couldn't solve the case. It had been unpardonable and rude. Sherlock shouldn't have to be the one to apologize.

Besides, he was fairly certain John couldn't last much longer in this silly "punishment."

* * *

_5 days, 2 hours, 1 minute_

"What are you doing?"

Sherlock dropped John's jumper as if he had been burned and his cheeks flamed with color.

"Nothing." He said, too quickly, and winced when John's eyebrows went up.

He waited until John had walked away before plucking up the jumper and taking one last fantastically deep lungful before hurling it into the clothes bin with unnecessary force, gritting his teeth.

* * *

_6 days, 18 hours, 47 minutes_

"You're not getting a leg over."

"I _know that_, John. I'm simply attempting to sleep in my own bed and would like to do so without being accused."

"Naked?"

"What?"

"You're sleeping naked?"

"…yes."

"You never sleep naked, Sherlock."

"Does it bother you?"

John chuckled warmly, eyes lighting with mirth, and Sherlock ached to close the distance between them. Unbidden, his eyes dropped to John's smiling mouth and he licked his lips. John's smile widened.

"I- I have no nefarious reasons, John. I'm hot."

"Well, yes you are, love."

Sherlock preened just a bit.

"You're still not getting a leg over, though."

* * *

_7 days, 10 hours, 15 minutes_

"If you'll look at the exit wound you'll notice the bullet was high caliber, as well. John's angry with me."

"Yeah, Anderson's already- _what_?" Greg frowned down at Sherlock in bewilderment. They were standing over a dead body, forced to hop and prance from one spot to another to avoid the tacky pools of blood splattered all over the floor. It was one of the more grisly crimes Greg had seen in his years with the force and he was not in the mood for one of Sherlock's games.

"John. He's angry with me."

"Yeah, he mentioned that last week." Greg said carefully, wondering where Sherlock was going with this. The younger man didn't say anything so Greg let it drop, eager to wrap this up so they could leave the depressing, bloody room. "What sort of-"

"What should I do?"

"_What_?"

Sherlock didn't look at him when he asked again. "What should I do?"

"Sherlock, now's really not the time…" At the troubled look on Sherlock's face, Greg sighed and tried again, his heart really not in it to give Sherlock Holmes relationship advice when all he really wanted to go was leave the room so he could vomit. "Um…well, I dunno. Have you tried, you know, apologizing?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, snorted, and went back to his deductions, obviously dismissing Greg's advice. Greg felt a flash of annoyance and wrote his notes with a bit more vehemence than was necessary.

It was later, when they were wrapping up and had finally stepped out of the room, Greg taking a wonderful, bracing gasp of fresh air, that Sherlock sharply glanced up and over at John, who had remained outside for fear of contamination.

"John."

"Yeah?"

Sherlock hesitated. "I'm sorry."

Greg watched as a slow, happy smile spread across John's face and when he extended his hand to Sherlock, the consulting detective bounded across to him in less than a second.

Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed when John let him take his hand, and the shorter man grinned up at his stubborn fiancé.

"Apology accepted." He tugged Sherlock down until their lips met and Greg was pretty sure that Sherlock moaning that obscenely in public should be a crime.

Sherlock looked as if he were trying to eat John from the mouth down and John himself wasn't helping any as he clutched at any part of Sherlock his hands came into contact with, some dangerously skating towards the edge of indecent.

Greg cleared his throat, loudly.

The two lascivious men ignored him. John's hands grabbed Sherlock's arse and the genius let out a frankly lewd sounding moan. Greg had had enough.

"All right, that's enough, you two!"

John and Sherlock broke apart, faces flushed and breathing heavily. John had the grace to look embarrassed, though Sherlock glared at Greg, his face like a thundercloud.

"You-"

"I think we're done here, yeah?" John asked quietly, and Sherlock glanced down at him, his face entirely hopeful. John grinned and Sherlock didn't even glance backwards as he tugged John towards the road to find a cab home.


	45. A Lovely Day Most Unexpected

**It's such a beautiful day where I am and I just had to write some fluff :) Soon we'll see a return of Mystrade and the continuation of "what happens next" for this chapter. **

**I've also had a few questions about when this story will end, so here's the answer: There will be a total of 50 chapters and then I will be writing a sequel. Thanks for all the support and reviews! :D**

* * *

When Sherlock had asked John if he would like to accompany him to the park on such a beautifully sunny, warm day, John had readily agreed.

He'd expected a nice walk, maybe some people watching interspersed with Sherlock's funny (if sometimes cruel) deductions, a bit of "disgustingly romantic" handholding as they strolled, stealing kisses by the pond, laughing together. They might buy something to eat and have an impromptu picnic (John knew he was seriously suspending reality with that thought but it was there all the same) or maybe, and most likely, they'd go to their favorite restaurant afterwards.

He had smiled as they clattered down the stairs and threw open the front door, entering the dazzlingly bright sunshine after the dimness of the flat. Turning his face up to the sky, John had expected a nice, relaxing time with his boyfr- mmm, no. _Fiancé_. John's smile had morphed into a wide grin and all the way to the park, he'd been in a good mood, satisfied with the world, anticipating all sorts of lovely moments with his fiancé.

John hadn't been expecting _this_.

"Have you ever truly realized how much canines excrete, John? This is why we can't have a dog in the flat. We'd be ankle deep in less than a week."

John, incredulous, stared at Sherlock who in turn was intently watching a small white Pekinese defecate. They were crouched behind a very scratchy clump of bushes, playing a one sided game of hide-and-go-seek with a harried looking dog walker, and John felt the desire to laugh hysterically.

Sherlock frequently had the effect on him.

"That's why you're supposed to _walk_ a dog, Sherlock. See? Like that? It doesn't…do its business in the flat. Besides, I want _one_ dog, not a whole bloody kennel."

"That's beside the point and you know it. _One_ dog is enough to make a mess. And when would we have time to be walking it? Hmm? Between your job and mine any dog of ours would be alone more often than not, thus causing a mess neither of us would have time to deal with."

"I suppose you're right." John replied hollowly, focusing on the pack of canines opposite them with rather bleak eyes.

Sherlock sighed, exasperated, his long fought for victory not everything he had thought it would be.

It had all started sometime last month when John had got the sudden and inexplicable zeal for dog ownership and had pestered Sherlock about it ever since. Sherlock didn't _want_ a dog. He'd never owned one personally, but they looked smelly, unkempt, and seemed to require a lot of time he didn't have to care for them. When he'd told John this, the older man had looked sad at first- apparently owning a dog being another of those annoying rites of passage that Sherlock had got left out on- but then grinned and tried to talk Sherlock around to the idea.

Sherlock had done the same in return.

John refused to listen to his well thought out and persuasive arguments against their adopting some deranged mutt off the streets. He had dismissed Sherlock's "Mrs. Hudson would disapprove" argument by applying to the lady in question, who turned traitor and told John she loved dogs. Also dismissed arguments included "the flat's too small," "my experiments," "you'll just be heartbroken when it dies," and Sherlock's personal favorite (and the one he thought the most truthful in this instance) "you're just using it as a stand-in for a child."

John, however, had remained steadfast and some mildly emphatic rows had taken place. Not to be defeated, and after careful consideration, Sherlock had found the one argument he _knew_ would end this silly "we need a dog" nonsense once and for all: "the dog would make more mess for you to clean up and you already clean up so much of my own mess" argument.

And he had been right. John had capitulated and there would be no more of this dog nonsense. It was fulfilling to be victorious….but Sherlock, staring at John in their quiet nest of leaves and twigs, suddenly wished they were still fighting about it instead of John just giving up. He hated seeing John look so…disappointed.

"_What _are we doing here anyway, Sherlock? Does this have to do with the dog-nabbing case on the website or just proving a point? You said that case was a three at best so…"

Sherlock huffed and didn't respond. John sounded let down, disheartened, and he fought the urge to tell him go ahead and get a stupid mutt if only to see his eyes light up and that particular smile spread across his face.

Maybe it wouldn't be _too_ bad getting a dog, so long as he let John know he wouldn't be in any way responsible for it and that if it ruined any of his possessions he would have no compunction about using it for an experiment. John was responsible enough and he seemed so keen on the idea. And Sherlock liked nothing better than making John happy- even if it would involve a slobbering, smelly dog.

He'd opened his mouth to tell John he'd reached a decision when John exclaimed. "Hey, isn't that Greg?"

"Where?" Sherlock pushed his face further into the bush to get a better view and his eyes narrowed when he saw where John was pointing.

Across the green stood Greg Lestrade, grinning boyishly and dressed very casually in shorts and a cotton shirt. He was spinning a brilliantly colored orange Frisbee on one finger as he spoke to a tall and equally casually dressed man beside him who seemed rather put out about something if his peevish expression and awkwardly crossed arms were any indication. As John and Sherlock watched, Greg offered the Frisbee to the angry man who looked at it with disdain before plucking it with undue venom from Greg's hand. Greg just laughed.

"Who's that with him?" John asked, brow furrowing as he stared. "Ah, no. You don't think- him and Mycroft broke up-"

"No, John." Sherlock's voice sounded very strange and John turned to look at him, concerned. "Greg and Mycroft haven't…_That's_ Mycroft."


	46. Great Day At the Park, Huh?

"I am not having fun, Gregory."

Mycroft stared icily at his grinning boyfriend who was spinning a Frisbee round and round on his finger with enviable natural grace. Mycroft eyed the dizzily revolving piece of plastic with disdain and deeply buried apprehension.

"Aw, come on, Myc." Greg coaxed, extending the Frisbee with a devilish smile. "I'll let you go first."

Of course he would, Mycroft though snidely, jerking the plastic disc from Greg's hand and blushing when his boyfriend only laughed at his stroppy behavior, kissing him quickly before jogging a few yards away.

Inspecting the cheap plastic toy Greg had excitedly bought from a corner store that morning, Mycroft heaved a sigh and wished he'd kept his mouth shut.

Greg was only doing this because Mycroft had told him he'd never before played this game, among many others Greg had started naming with increasing dismay. He didn't know why Greg had been so surprised. His and Sherlock's childhoods had included more studying and indoor activities instead of the usual running and jumping about that most children enjoyed. Not that Mycroft felt he had missed anything. Even as a child he'd hated activities requiring a lot of physical activity. He disliked getting sweaty.

Greg, on the other hand, after his initial surprise and much headshaking over Mycroft's apparent tragedy of a childhood, had made it his goal to teach Mycroft everything he'd missed as a kid.

It was entirely tedious and unnecessary.

"I'm ready." He called, as Mycroft continued to dubiously inspect the toy. He shot an embarrassed glare at Greg who grinned impudently at him and then had the audacity to wave.

Sighing, knowing there was no hope for it, Mycroft clutched the Frisbee at the edge, curled his wrist back, and let it fly.

It sailed through the air before swooping downward, curving in a graceful arc, and flopping feebly onto the grass a mere yard from where Mycroft stood.

Greg cocked an eyebrow but managed to suppress the laughter that was threatening to burst out. Mycroft snapped upright in embarrassment, his cheeks burning in embarrassment, wishing he was wearing a suit, and lifted his chin defiantly, refusing to retrieve the Frisbee. _Greg_ had wanted to play this stupid game. _He_ could damn well walk over and get it.

Greg jogged over, snatched it from the grass, and winked at Mycroft, who stared blankly back at him, before jogging away.

"Here it comes!" He yelled and Mycroft keenly watched Greg's technique as he tossed the Frisbee.

It soared smoothly through the air and Mycroft half-heartedly lurched awkwardly to the left, missing the catch by a considerable distance and forcing him to retrieve it.

"This is undignified." He called, returning to his original position, the disc swinging from his fingertips.

Greg just wriggled his eyebrows suggestively.

His next toss was a little better, actually _almost_ making it to Greg, who gave an exaggerated dive forward to catch it but missed.

Mycroft was not amused.

Greg's answering toss sailed directly at Mycroft, went straight through his arms, and bounced off his chest, wobbling drunkenly as it rolled away.

Mycroft sighed. "Really, Gregory, must we-"

"Yes! Just get the fucking Frisbee, Myc."

Mycroft calmly walked after the Frisbee, which had merrily rolled a considerable distance before finally collapsing against a tree, and snatched it from the ground. He refused to _stomp_ back to his position, even if doing so would make him feel better. It was unbecoming behavior. He resigned himself to his fate, repeating over and over that he loved Gregory, he really, really did.

Mycroft spent the next few minutes watching Greg run, jump, and dive after all his poor tosses, making a complete idiot of himself. A happy idiot, Mycroft amended, his lips twitching against his will as Greg picked himself up from the grass, a large green stain now smeared across his chest, grinning wildly.

"Don't smile, darling, your face might freeze that way." He called happily, tossing the disc back without warning.

Mycroft's stomach jumped in surprise and he found his feet moving before he could stop himself, jogging to the right, his eyes trained on the orange projectile spinning toward him.

When his fingers grasped the ridged plastic of the disc, Mycroft felt a burst of pleasure and couldn't stop the delighted grin from plastering itself over his face.

Greg whooped and pumped his arms in the air, jogging over and tugging Mycroft into a heated victory kiss. Mycroft stiffened in surprise before responding, breathing in the scent of soap and beneath that the heady, teasing aroma of sweat and _Greg_.

He wasn't relaxed enough to do something so common as _moan_ in public, but the desire to do so was there and when he finally pulled away, the color high on his cheeks had nothing to do with the exertion or embarrassment.

Greg grinned. "Why don't we-"

"_Stop_! Oi! _Stop that man_- he's stolen my dog!"

Both men jerked in the direction of the hysterical shriek, their relaxed postures suddenly tense. Mycroft's eyes widened.

Halfway across the park, Sherlock was running full out, a yapping bundle of fur clutched in his arms, leash still attached and trailing the ground, closely followed by John, as an irate dog walker shouted, pointing and trying to pull her charges after them.

"Uh. Well." Greg scratched his neck and glanced sideways at his speechless love. "Great day at the park, huh?"


	47. Ties

**This is tie-related smut and I suppose it has no redeeming qualities...unless you like smut. I make no apologies. :)**

* * *

Sherlock loved it when John wore ties.

It _did things_ to him, naughty things, when he saw John looking well-put-together in one of his ties, knot elegant, shirt pristine, freshly pressed and tucked into his trousers. When he saw John looking so dapper, Sherlock couldn't stop the direction of his thoughts, which usually went down, down, down into John's pants.

Not that he often got the opportunity. John didn't know how to correctly match his ties with his outfits, despite Sherlock's helpfully making him a tie index one memorably boring afternoon while John was at the surgery.

It was also a sad fact and an impediment to Sherlock's libido that many of John's ties were hideous and plain, made of inexpensive fabrics that really ought to have never been made into ties. There were those grotesquely colored ones with funny, cartoonish prints that John said "made him more approachable to kids" at the surgery. _Those_ were the ones Sherlock would unerringly use for any and all experiments that required a scrap of cloth.

He felt justified because such things shouldn't be worn round people's necks.

On this particular evening, John arrived home from the surgery wearing a tie Sherlock himself had given him for his birthday. It was an elegant, smooth, dark blue silk and Sherlock had bought it because it reminded him of, well, himself. Laying egotistical thoughts aside, Sherlock had thought it was a good gift for John because John loved him and would correctly interpret and cherish the reminder of his fiancé.

It took only the barest of glances for Sherlock, who was hunched over an experiment on the kitchen table, to deduce which tie John was wearing and he felt his heartbeat speed up exponentially. John had paired it with a simple white shirt and the tie stood in lovely contrast, drawing the eye- or at least, Sherlock's eye.

John was momentarily surprised when Sherlock assaulted him in the sitting room, kissing him harshly as he jerked John's belt off and made quick work of his trousers and pants, tossing them across the room without a care to where they landed. They fumbled together, breathing heavily, shedding clothes as Sherlock backed John towards the sofa, pushing him roughly and following him down. Sherlock made sure John kept his shirt and neatly made up tie on, swatting his hands away when John tried to unbutton the shirt and ignoring his breathless laugh.

All too soon, he had John laying on the sofa, legs spread, ready to receive him.

When Sherlock slid into him, John arched his back and moaned and Sherlock grinned, loving that he could make his John sound that way. John looked thoroughly debauched, his crisp shirt becoming hopelessly creased as they moved together, his bare legs wrapped around Sherlock's hips, and his beautiful blue silk tie resting between, enticing Sherlock.

"Oh, god, fuck me." John moaned below him and Sherlock was only too willing to oblige, very enthusiastically.

From the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw his experiment catch fire, the flames leaping happily from where John's trousers and pants had, unfortunately, landed on his burner when Sherlock had thrown them.

He cursed and crashed his lips to John's, wickedly invading John's mouth with his tongue to keep his lover from noticing their kitchen was about to go up in flames because finishing _this_ was a much more important and pressing concern.

It was the faint smell of smoke, coupled with a particularly inspiring moan from John, which spurred Sherlock to thrust harder, roughly, biting John's lip to keep his focus on _him_, on what they were doing. John was beyond noticing anything else, his eyes squinted shut, snapping his hips up, moaning disjointedly.

The smoke alarm began blaring.

John's eyes snapped open in shock.

Sherlock gripped John's tie in his fist and pulled him up into a bruising kiss, growling, pounding harder, and John came between them with a strangled cry. Sherlock felt the warm wetness against his stomach and thrust hard a few more times before coming, refusing to relax his grip on John's tie until he was done, sucking and biting on John's lips, ignoring the shrill and insistent beeping of the alarm signaling there was danger.

He only rested a few seconds before he pulled gracelessly out of John, who hissed and winced and scrambled up behind him. Sherlock ran naked into the kitchen and grabbed the fire extinguisher, spraying the flames that now encompassed much of the table and were sneakily spreading, making their way to the floor.

When he had dealt with the fire and as the smoke was clearing, Sherlock looked up to see John lounging against the doorway, wonderfully naked except for his shirt and tie, grinning at him lasciviously with one eyebrow raised.

"Well, that was interesting. Next time you jump me make sure to turn off your Bunsen burner."

Sherlock chuckled, eyeing John appreciatively. "Where's the fun in that?"

John had just started to laugh along with him when-

"_What's going on_?!" Mrs. Hudson shrieked, propelling herself up the stairs as fast as her dodgy hip would allow- getting an eyeful of John's naked bum as he darted into Sherlock's bedroom.

Sherlock himself stood proud and naked in the kitchen and nodded politely at his shocked landlady, smiling confidently.

"Fire, Mrs. Hudson. We put it out."

"Sherlock Holmes, _put your trousers on_!"


	48. Dog Acquisition

**Clarification: The dog Sherlock "stole" in the park was for a case which was briefly mentioned in Chapter 45. Sherlock did not, sadly, steal the dog for Jawn. I had a lot of questions about this and I tried to clear it up for everyone who asked :)  
**

* * *

Sherlock growled in frustration and slammed his laptop shut. He was going about this all wrong.

When he'd first made his decision two weeks ago, his plan had seemed faultless. Now, two weeks later and _still_ no closer to his goal, Sherlock felt ready to tear his hair out.

He'd researched the best breeds of dogs, compared which were good companions and which of those were better suited to living in a flat, the benefits of long hair versus short, friendliness, agility, intelligence…

If he were going to purchase a dog for John, he would get the very best.

Only….that wasn't what he should be doing, Sherlock realized, pressing his hands beneath his chin and beginning a slow stride around the room.

How many times had he heard John comment on "jumped up, overbred, posh dogs," groomed within an inch of their lives and only ornamental with no brains? It was easy to dismiss the parts about their lesser intelligence because Sherlock was certain he could find a smart canine but…the more he thought on it…the more it made sense that he was going about this dog acquisition the wrong way.

He needed to stop thinking about this problem like _himself_ and instead think more like _John_.

Thirty seconds later, Sherlock had his answer.

Dammit.

* * *

The animal shelter volunteer beamed as she gestured Sherlock inside the room they kept the puppies in.

He hadn't needed to be told, Sherlock thought petulantly as the volunteer walked ahead of him, blabbing on about the different prices for shots and pointing into cages. He had been able to hear the yapping harshness of close to fifty puppies echoing from down the hallway and now, in the same room as the high-pitched, barking animals, he felt his head beginning to ache.

This was for John, he reminded himself, following slowly after the volunteer, glancing into cages as he went past them.

The puppies crowded close to the front of the cages, barking and squirming excitedly, little tongues lolling out, paws pressing against the mesh, eager to please.

Sherlock eyed them dispassionately.

They were all fine, he supposed. Nothing incredibly special or note-worthy. Plain. Most rather ugly. Mixed breeds turning out odd-colorings and a mélange of features.

John would have loved them all.

Sherlock grit his teeth at that thought, a reminder of why he was here and for whom.

John would like the idea of having a rescue. Of giving the dog a second chance, giving it a home where before it hadn't one. It was why Sherlock was standing in a roomful of smelly, barking, stupid mutts while he was talked at by a woman who _had_ to know he couldn't hear her over the racket the dogs were making but continued to talk anyway.

Moron.

He had paused by a cage, eyed the little runts speculatively, and was about to move on…when he saw it.

Or rather, _him_.

The puppy lay on its back, soft, white little belly on full display, paws folded over beneath its chin as it snored, oblivious to the din its fellows were raising all around it.

Rather fat, sleeping instead of playing.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. If it were lazy there would be less begging for walks, less keeping him up all night making a racket, less chewing, running, jumping. Less mess in general.

He gingerly knelt on the cold concrete to get a better angle on the puppy which slept on, oblivious to the fact that someone was showing an avid interest in it.

Instead, it twitched in its sleep, paws spasming before going still, and a brief, high little whimper escaped.

John sometimes did that when he was sleeping, too.

Sherlock shoved that rogue thought away and concentrated on _facts_.

The puppy was obviously lazy. John would get his dog, Sherlock would get to keep things more or less the way they always were. It seemed a very win-win scenario.

Just in case, though…

Sherlock reached through the bars of the cage, ignoring the volunteer's reprimand, and poked the puppy. Hard.

It stretched, yawned, and slept on.

Sherlock smiled. He had found John's dog.

* * *

It had been an hour since he'd brought the puppy home and Sherlock was already regretting it.

Unused to its new surroundings, the bow-legged ball of fur waddled around, wriggling under the sofa and getting stuck, digging into corners, rooting through important stacks of papers, and yap-yap-yapping until Sherlock snapped and shouted at it.

At which point it whimpered, cowered, and peed all over the floor.

Sherlock had then discovered that while Mrs. Hudson professed to a great love of dogs, she refused to clean up after them.

"It's _your_ responsibility, Sherlock." She chided, handing him paper toweling. "You shouldn't have got a dog if you couldn't take care of it."

"It's for _John_." Sherlock snatched the roll and glared down at the sad-eyed pup, who seemed to have realized it had done something wrong and was groveling appropriately. "In future, _I_ will not be the one who cleans up his messes."

The pissing brat had the gall to watch Sherlock mop up, tongue lolling out, panting happily and without a care in the world.

Sherlock suppressed the urge to throttle it.

He also wondered where that lazy slothfulness he had witnessed at the shelter had gone because the fat little idiot suddenly seemed full of vim and vigor. It bounded over to Mrs. Hudson and wriggled happily around her feet, tail going wild.

"What are you going to name him?" Mrs. Hudson asked, kneeling down to offer her hand to the puppy, who began yap-yap-yapping again.

"I don't care what John names him just so long as he knows it's _his_ dog and _his_ responsibility." Sherlock said over the racket the puppy was making, exasperated. "_I_ didn't want him. I only got him because of _John_."

The puppy flopped over onto its back with a small little thud, tail sweeping the floor, squirming ecstatically as Mrs. Hudson cooed at it, rubbing the proffered belly. "He'll be ever so pleased. He's been going on about getting a dog for weeks now."

Mrs. Hudson laughed as the puppy jumped up and leapt at Sherlock, pawing at his trousers for attention. Sherlock frowned and irritably shook his foot to get it away. The puppy, undeterred, bounded back to Mrs. Hudson.

"He's _adorable_, Sherlock."

Sherlock eyed the monstrosity doubtfully.


	49. A New Member at 221B

"What's that?"

Sherlock looked up from his mobile to find John paused in the act of hanging up his jacket, eyeing the ragged little puppy slumbering on the rug. It was a deceptively calm persona, Sherlock knew now and he momentarily glared at the _thing_, hoping it got sick after gnawing its way through half a case file. Now that John was in the flat, it was officially _his_ dog and therefore _his_ responsibility to clean up after it.

"It's a puppy, John."

John gave Sherlock an annoyed look. "Yes, I _know_ that, I mean what is it doing…here?"

A sarcastic retort was on the tip of his tongue until Sherlock properly took in John's expression. Pleasure swelled in Sherlock's chest and suddenly everything he'd suffered that afternoon was worth it as he watched his fiancé stare down at the chubby puppy.

Sherlock smiled. His John was so transparent. He was trying to look nonchalant, telling himself the puppy was probably for some sort of case, or a weird behavioral experiment Sherlock had devised which he would have to put a stop to…but Sherlock could easily see the tiny flicker of hope, of longing, of already falling in love with the little ragamuffin _thing_ in John's eyes.

"I got it. Today. For you."

As grand, romantic speeches went, that one fell decidedly flat and wasn't at all what Sherlock had wanted to say. It did, however, handily convey his point.

John's stance shifted and he frowned, blinking in confusion. "_You_ got _me_ a dog."

It was a statement, not a question, but Sherlock answered it nonetheless. "Yes. You've said you wanted one for weeks now and I thought…." Sherlock trailed off, his certainty over the delighted reception of his gift quickly ebbing away as John still looked discomfited. "Should I not have done?" He asked somewhat anxiously.

John bit his lip and looked from the still-slumbering puppy to his uncertain fiancé, then back to the puppy. He pursed his lips and Sherlock, relieved, watched him fight and then fail to keep the huge, ecstatic grin off his face.

"Really?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course. As if I would go through all the effort of acquiring a dog, bringing it back to the flat, and then cleaning up after it _all afternoon_ just to-"

John pressed his lips to Sherlock's, effectively shutting up his overly loquacious love.

"Thank you." He breathed, and Sherlock felt the pleasure of pleasing John swell to hitherto unknown levels.

"You're welcome." He replied, surprised to find that he really, honestly, meant it.

"I'll thank you…_properly_, later," John promised, grinning as he watched Sherlock's pupils visibly dilate and stole one more quick kiss before turning to the waking ball of fur behind him with a happy smile.


	50. New Parents

**Well, this is it: the last chapter. It's always sad to me when a story ends so I wrote some porn to cushion to blow. Seriously though, I will be writing a sequel to this. It should be up in another week or so because I cannot truly say goodbye to this little world I've created. It's a safe place I play in :)**

**I want to say a sincere thank you to everyone who followed and favorited this story. I've been blown away by the response these drabbles have gained. Every review has been special. Thank you.**

**Also, I now have a Tumblr account. A link is on my profile page, so feel free to follow me. I'll post updates to my stories there as well.**

* * *

Sherlock's long, pale fingers gripped at John's hips, fingernails making crescent moons in the soft flesh as John rocked himself up and down at a feverish pace, face flushed, breathing ragged. Sherlock snapped his hips each time John sank all the way down, seating his cock even deeper, making the doctor's breath catch in agonized pleasure. Arousal tightened at the base of his spine as Sherlock breathlessly watched John chase his orgasm with single-minded determination, sweat beading on his forehead, eyes clenched tightly closed.

Sherlock moved one of his hands from John's hip to encircle his leaking cock, forcing a sharp cry from John and more frantic movement-

But beneath the sharp, almost painful spiral of pleasure was a nagging…._something_…that tugged at Sherlock's subconscious and refused to be overshadowed.

Grimacing in annoyance, Sherlock glanced around John's body…

And looked straight into the wide, innocent eyes of John's new puppy, sat primly and tubby at the foot of their bed.

It's dark, shiny eyes were staring at Sherlock.

Intently.

And Sherlock felt very uncomfortable by it.

It was a novel feeling.

He was rarely uncomfortable, able to brazen out just about any situation he found himself in by simply not caring what others thought of him or felt about his actions. Unused as he was to being uncomfortable, the fact that he felt this way _now_ was particularly unusual, and Sherlock didn't like the feeling. It was just a little, ignorant canine. It wasn't as if it knew what they were doing, or was judging them, or being corrupted by the performance. There was no reason to feel so awkward.

Still…

"John?"

John, wholly engrossed in what he was doing (never say John Watson doesn't take his responsibilities, namely getting both himself and Sherlock off, seriously), didn't notice the change in his lover's voice.

"_John_-"

"Oh, god," John choked, movements growing even more erratic. "_Sherlock_-"

"No, _John_." Sherlock gripped John's hips harder, forcing him to stop moving, and John's eyes popped open in confusion, his own hands tightening on Sherlock's chest where they had been braced.

"What? What is it?"

"The dog."

John frowned and leaned back from his hunch over Sherlock's prone body, pushing the consulting detective further inside and they both moaned. John, head lolling back, began rocking his hips in this new position, seemingly ready to pick up where they had left off and ignore the nonsensical thing Sherlock had just said.

Sherlock, though, just _couldn't_.

"_What_?" John's agitation could perhaps be excused as he'd been _this close_ to achieving what would've probably been the best orgasm of his life. It had certainly felt that way.

"The dog. It's…staring at us."

"What? Where?"

"There." Sherlock pointed and John twisted around a bit to see. He turned back to Sherlock, amused and chuckling.

"So?"

Sherlock's eyes widened meaningfully but John brushed the sweaty fringe off his lover's forehead and kissed him sloppily.

"It's just a dog, Sherlock." He started rocking again but Sherlock tightened his grip and John groaned in frustration.

"I can't." Sherlock finally admitted, rather shame-facedly. "Not while it's…_right there_. Judging us."

John snorted. "_Judging us_? It's a _dog_, Sherlock, it doesn't know what we're doing."

Sherlock knew he was being stupid but…it was too awkward. He just couldn't relax and enjoy what they were doing while the puppy watched. He couldn't.

He tightened his lips and stared up at John who finally huffed, shaking his head.

"Oh for god's sake." John reluctantly rose up, keening softly when Sherlock slipped out of him, and clambered to the foot of the bed, scooping up the little mongrel and gently placing it in the hallway. He closed the door and turned back to Sherlock.

"There. Can we get on with it now?"

But just as they _were_ getting on with it, the sound of sad little whimpers began from the other side of the door.

Both men froze, ears straining to listen and yes, there it was. Plaintive scratching at the door, pathetic whimpers beginning to morph into a low, drawn out howl.

John buried his face in Sherlock's neck and moaned, circling his hips, grinding down, seemingly not to be deterred.

Another whimper sounded from the hallway.

"Shouldn't we-"Sherlock began uneasily but John caught his lips in a kiss.

"He'll quiet down in a minute." He whispered, and Sherlock's breath caught as John rolled his hips, fingers splaying out once again on those lean hips to encourage-

The low howl suddenly became sharp, high-pitched cries, accompanied by frenzied scratching at the door and both men froze again.

"Oh, _Christ_." John slumped atop Sherlock briefly before extracting himself yet again and trudging to the door. As soon as it was open, the puppy bounded inside happily, tail wagging and weaving around John's feet before leaping gleefully onto the bed and heading straight for Sherlock.

Pulling the covers defensively to his chest, Sherlock stared accusatorially across the room at John.

"_You_ wanted a dog." He hissed, trying to fend the little mutt off as it lunged at his face in an attempt to gratefully lick it.


End file.
